Acceleration Waltz
by TwistedGoth
Summary: AU. 1950s, America. Anti-German sentiment is alive and well, and for most young people, destiny is already decided. But one American and one German may stray from their intended paths, and perceptions are always subject to change. America x Germany
1. Emperor Waltz

**A/N **: Fixed a few things here and there, and updated the warning section.

**Warnings!** : AU. Human characters. Set in 1950s New York City, violence, language, Teutophobia, abusive father/son relationship, mentions of war, mentions of Nazis, racism, other somewhat questionable content.

**Pairings!** : America x Germany (to clarify, that IS the correct order), later on Prussia x Spain (you'll see! ;)). Other characters are (in no particular order) : Prussia, Canada, fem!England, fem!Italy, Romano, Spain, France. In this, Francis is Alfred's uncle, for lack of anyone else. Just go with it. Also, keep your eyes open for some Canada x Fem!Italy and Romano x Fem!England later on, because I can. :p

The LOVELY cover is artwork for moi by the LOVELY **Kissos**. (kiss kiss)

**ALSO** : Wonderful **OrangePlum** has turned this story into a comic! Please go look at it and offer her your support, because it is AWESOME! accelerationwaltz (.tumblr) .com

(P.S. - Links to other wonderful fanart can be found in my profile because I am too lazy to put it all here.)

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><p><strong>ACCELERATION WALTZ<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

**Emperor Waltz**

Alfred had only been ten years old when the fires raging over Europe had finally calmed.

The war ended in '45, and he remembered clearly the day that his father, after five long years of maddening not knowing and loneliness, had walked back through the door.

He would never forget the feeling.

A dark, stormy night in the summer of '46, and his father had stood there in the door frame, tall and dark and barely standing straight, unshaven and covered in old scars. His uniform had been well-worn and dirty, and when Alfred had rushed forward and embraced him around the waist, he took in his aroma; gunpowder and beer.

A long silence.

His father had pressed a heavy hand down onto his head, muttering something incomprehensible, and Alfred's heart had soared.

And when his father had staggered forward and collapsed into his chair, Alfred had burst into tears and tried to crawl in his lap. A sharp, impatient cuff to the side of his head had deterred him from doing so, and his father had only grunted, "Stop cryin'," before passing out in exhaustion.

Alfred, undaunted by the blow, tidied up the house and tried his best to make dinner, and the smile on his face had never once waned.

That was the best night of his life.

Even if his father had been too dazed and tired and _strange_ to respond to Alfred's attempts at affection.

It was alright.

His mother had died long ago, and even though he had spent the war years under the care of his maternal uncle, he had missed his father more than anything else. Even if his uncle was kinder and gentler, soft-spoken and calm, and let him get away with absolutely _anything_, it just wasn't the same.

His uncle was his uncle. But his father was his _father_.

Once things had settled down over the next few days, Alfred got to know his father all over again. He had only been five, after all, when the old man had left, so there was only so much that he remembered.

It didn't take long.

Foul-mouthed, loud and crass, he got what he wanted, when he wanted, and anyone who stood in his way would face his wrath. He bullied, cursed, pushed, shoved, shouted. He showed no empathy, or sympathy. The women fought for him. He knew no shame, and his pride was overshadowed only by his narcissism.

Alfred was fascinated.

He sat up at night, schoolwork abandoned in the firelight, as he listened to his father regale his friends over his war victories and exploits. He spared no gory detail, not even about shooting German paratroopers who had already surrendered (he was proud of it!) and Alfred drank it in, knowing immediately that he wanted to be just _like_ him.

To be respected and honored. To know no fear. To be a war hero, blazing in glory on the fields of battle, driving back evil and repression.

An American hero.

He bragged to his friends at school about his brave father, and when he was fourteen, the school had suspended him for bringing one of his father's war trophies to school for show and tell: a bloody, mottled German soldier's helmet. The bullet hole in the back of it had made his teacher retch.

And the next day, his father had raised holy hell, and had even gone so far as to punch the principal in the face. Alfred was overwhelmed with admiration, even if he too had gone to school (the next day) with a black eye for 'causing so much goddamn trouble in the first place'.

He remembered from childhood that his father had always been something to awe and fear, but now his volatile temper knew no bounds, and his hatred for Germans had reached almost obsessive levels, and every spare breath was spent cursing them. Something in the war had flipped off the switch in his brain that dictated self-control, and sometimes Alfred would come into a room and find him spinning the barrel of his gun absently, as he stared off into space.

But this brash recklessness was nothing that Alfred was ashamed of, and he took his beatings proudly when they came.

His father was his hero. His idol.

God.

Life was okay.

The years passed, step-mothers came and went, some days were better than others, and when Alfred was seventeen, something suddenly happened that had shaken his faith in his father, and himself.

Unexpected.

It had begun as a normal day, and he and his friends had been hanging around the block after school, as they so often did, when someone had started screaming.

Screaming.

He would never forget the sound as long as he lived; shrill and anguished and heartbroken, as though someone were beating a dog who did not understand why.

There was a commotion at the end of the street, and Alfred could not help his curiosity. And even though his best friend (_poor _Matthew, he would later regret above all else) had begged them not to go, Alfred had insisted. They jogged off, nosy, Alfred at the head of the pack. But when they reached the street at the end of the block, where most of the European community could be located, they found themselves frozen in place, and Alfred's stomach had twisted.

The house at the corner belonged to an elderly couple, German immigrants who had lived in the same place long before Alfred had even been born. The Schulzes. He and his friends often made a point of walking by their house, because old Mrs. Schulze would always slip them homemade marzipan bars if they showed her their good test scores. And even though they were German, and even though Alfred scarfed down the candy before his father could see it, they weren't _really _German, were they? They were _nice_, and normal. Just nice old people. Not the monsters that his father had told him stories about. They did not wear swastikas on their arms. Maybe it was hypocritical of him, but he did not want to believe that he could like someone so much who just happened to be the very thing he had been raised to hate.

And yet there he had stood on that sunny day, as Mrs. Schulze screeched her agony to the skies on her front step, and down below on the sidewalk was her husband, being kicked and punched and stomped into a bloody, quivering mess. And above him, wild-eyed and shouting the foulest slurs he had ever heard, was his father.

He shook his head to clear it, certain that his eyes were deceiving him.

When he looked again, he felt his heart hammer wildly in his chest as nausea jolted his stomach.

It was his father, alright.

A moment of silent incomprehension.

He remembered that beside him, Matthew, short and slight, had lurched oddly, as though torn between running forward or staying put. But his bravery was short lived, and he whirled around on his heel, covering his mouth with his hand and shutting his eyes. Alfred was too horrified to look away.

The old man on the ground was begging and pleading and crying, but his father did not stop.

He didn't stop.

Why wouldn't he _stop_? There were people everywhere! The entire street had been crowded, and passersby had averted their eyes as _his _father beat a defenseless old man into the pavement with his boots. And for what? What had the hapless senior done to invoke such wrath? Had he been speaking German to his wife when his father had just happened to be passing? Had he mouthed back at being called a _Kraut _or _Fritz _or _Jerry_?

Or had he done nothing at all?

Alfred remembered looking around dumbly, waiting for someone to intervene. _He _couldn't. How could he? He could not disobey his father.

But no one acted, and as he searched the street, he caught someone's gaze.

A pair of ice-blue eyes bored into his own, and he recognized another occupant of the European block; another German, he remembered with a stir of anxiety. A young man, barely older than himself, who rarely ventured outside and kept completely to himself. Alfred had seen him sometimes, though, walking around the park with his dog.

He was peering out of his door, tall and wary and face completely guarded, his brow low in severity. Alfred did not miss the flit of emotion than ran through his eyes as they stared at each other:

Fear. Accusation.

Alfred had been recognized as well.

Everyone knew Alfred's father. _Especially _the Germans.

They stared.

He could not stand the contentious gaze, and bowed his head, as the old man's cries faded into whimpers, and then moans, and then nothing at all.

He felt sick.

Half an hour later, the police came, and escorted his father away. Mr. Schulze had been rushed to the hospital, where he would die that night, his wife at his side.

Nothing happened to his father. His sin went completely unpunished.

Alfred had bolted home and stumbled through the front door, barely making it to the bathroom before he had vomited. He was aghast at what he had seen. His father had killed tens, hundreds even, of Germans in the war, and Alfred had always imagined it to be brave and heroic.

Glorious.

There was nothing glorious about what he had just witnessed, and he could still hear the old woman's shrieks reverberating in his ears. This was not how he had envisioned death.

He was shaken to his core, as he realized with a lurch of horror that he had seen his _real _father emerge for the first time. He had finally seen the very thing that he had so longed to become.

His hero.

As he had gripped the edge of the sink, staring at his pale reflection in the mirror above, he could not help but shudder.

No matter how many medals his father had won...

No matter how many people called him a hero...

No matter how many women fawned after him...

He never wanted to see himself with that look of uncontrollable hatred upon his face. He never wanted to see himself stomping a life out of existence.

And he longed to say as much, but his will always bowed down in the presence of his intimidating father, and when the elder had slung an arm around Alfred's shoulders and said, 'Guess what I did today?', Alfred could only avert his eyes and listen to the whole numbing story.

His chest ached.

He did not go to school for the rest of the week, feigning illness.

But, as it happened, his crisis had only been momentary; after a year or so, he had repressed the incident into the back of his mind, and after many hours of fighting against his sickening guilt, he had managed to convince himself that Mr. Schulze had been, after all, _just_ a German...

Only a German.

And his father was still a pillar of the community. No one had even sent him a dirty look since then.

His _hero_.

He set himself into the belief that his father was still a man of honor. He _had_ to believe it, because if he could not, then there was nothing left for him to believe in. Fathers were supposed to be role models.

And besides, his father had been through so much in the war. So many years. So many terrible things he'd seen...

It wasn't his fault. It wasn't.

Soon, he graduated school. His father had given him only an awkward slap on the shoulder for luck.

He found a job before long, as he saved aside money to one day go to college.

And when he turned twenty, he had all but forgotten his father's sin, carrying on with his life as normally as any young adult. He was tall and handsome, proud and intelligent. He cared little for studying, but did so dutifully nonetheless, and used most of the money he was trying to save to meander around the town at his discretion. The girls flocked to him now, as much as they ever had his father, but he did not keep their fancies for long before he moved on to another.

A typical American brat, and he would have it no other way.

He was good-natured, and happy. And he _thought_ that he was too strong-willed to ever let anyone boss him around anymore, now that he was grown.

But God help him...

When his father, seeing that he had become a strongly built adult, took him out around the block and inserted him into the middle of his frequent ethnic bullying, he clamped his jaw shut and went with the tide. He had, at his father's behest, ganged up and harassed a local German vendor. He had, at his father's urging, broken a shop window of a bakery. He had even, at his father's cajoling, physically forced that pale-haired German, the one that had locked eyes with him that day so long ago, to walk in the dirty gutter rather than on the sidewalk.

And when he had, at his father's command, spray-painted a swastika on the front of old Mrs. Schulze's door (oh, _God_, how she had cried when she saw it), he had wanted nothing more than to go home, crawl into bed, and never show his face in public again. Matthew's look of disappointment hurt him more than anything else.

How could he be so cowardly?

He did everything that was expected of him, mechanically, without even raising his voice in protest.

He never said 'no'.

That was _his _sin.


	2. Minute Waltz

**Chapter 2**

**Minute Waltz**

There are few things more appealing to an adolescent male than the smell of machinery and motor oil, and even though a fledgling mechanic's pay was hardly any better than that of a slaving waiter, the appealing feel of steel in Alfred's hands more than justified the near destitution.

Or maybe it was just the sense of masculinity that he enjoyed, and the girls' eyes that followed him when he walked down the street, covered in oil and sweat, tall and muscled.

Matthew called him a showboat, and maybe he was. Just a little.

Ego would probably be his downfall one day.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Matthew grumbled, stuck firmly to Alfred's side as they ambled down the street.

Alfred knew damn well was he was talking about; his habit of removing his sweaty shirt and throwing it over his shoulder, leaving only a flimsy white tank top to cover his chest, and puffing out proudly every time a girl passed.

Typical showboating.

What he thrived on.

"I don't know what you mean," he drawled back, eyes lingering on a sauntering woman on the other side of the street, and he slowed to a crawl when she threw him a wink. Matthew's brow furrowed in annoyance, and he rolled his eyes and sped his pace, forcing Alfred to follow.

Damn.

Oh well. Plenty of fish in the sea, as his uncle liked to say.

Matthew was a notorious buzz-kill anyway, but even though he would never understand Matthew's odd behavior at times, he still considered him his absolute best friend, and a source of endless (if not sometimes boring) wisdom. Of course, times with Matthew were not always frequent, and his father had always preferred for him to hang out with the other young men that walked the block.

Matthew was, after all, known to the neighborhood as just 'that Canuck'. The shy, boring, timid one who never got into trouble and never _caused _trouble.

And being around him was, for lack of another word, un-cool.

Alfred was anything but.

Matthew was mostly there, it seemed, just for someone to tease. Sometimes even Alfred.

Alfred loved Matthew like a brother, through it all, and even though the other guys giggled at him, he stuck with him nonetheless. His father's chides were only half-hearted at the most, and as long as he was just hanging out with the Canuck and not those 'goddamn, loud-mouthed Italians', then everything was okay.

Even so, Matthew was always reluctant to enter his house, and Alfred could only imagine why.

There was always some good reason why he had to 'wait outside', and, like clockwork...

"I'll wait outside," Matthew said, predictably, as they came up to the house, and he paused by the steps, crossing his arms over his chest and bracing his feet on the pavement.

Of course.

Rolling his eyes, Alfred grabbed Matthew's arm and dragged him up the steps without mercy. "Come on," he goaded, as he pulled, "You're not gonna sit out here and look like a damn _loser_. Besides, I gotta eat somethin' before we go out."

Matthew opened his mouth and began to sputter, "So eat somethin'!", but his soft voice was lost under Alfred's loud, obnoxious one, and with one mighty yank the hapless little Canadian was pulled up the stairs and through the threshold.

When the door was shut behind them, Alfred's father glanced up from the kitchen table where he sat, paper in hand.

He saw Alfred first, and grumbled, "Where've you been, boy? You're never gonna get into a college if you keep runnin' those streets."

"I was at _work_, dad," he shot back, and his father's brows lowered.

"Yeah, that's what you said yesterday."

"I worked yesterday _too_, dad!" he cried in exasperation, as Matthew tried to slink by behind him and into the living room without drawing attention to himself, but he was not fast enough, and his father's eyes lit up when he saw him.

"Hey there, frostback!" he cried, a bit gleefully, and Matthew froze in place, turning to face the elder with a look of apprehension. "I guess you were workin' too, _eh_?"

"Yes, sir," Matthew grumbled, weakly, a faint flush of embarrassment on his cheeks at the jabs to his northern heritage. Alfred smiled obliviously, like he always did, and when his father was satisfied, the paper flew back up, and they fled into the living room, throwing themselves on the couch.

Another normal day.

As he turned on the television, Alfred heaved a contented sigh, and turned to Matthew, expectantly.

"So, where do you wanna go?" he asked, and Matthew merely shrugged a shoulder, lips pursed.

Moody already.

Sparing himself only a 'hm', Alfred leaned back into the couch, hands behind his head, and wondered why Matthew always took his father's words so damn seriously. It was just teasing, for Christ's sake. Like the kids in school hadn't picked on Matthew worse back in the day.

Maybe it was just the loud tone of voice his father spoke in. Matthew's parents were as soft-spoken as he was, and he was not used to being talked to in such a harsh manner. Hearing _his_ dad talk was, to Matthew, probably akin to being screeched at.

Eh. He would get over it one of these days, Alfred convinced himself.

Besides, his father was mostly hot air.

Mostly.

"Alfred!" came a cry from the kitchen, and he grimaced.

"_What_?"

"Some girl came looking for you today."

"Who?"

"I don't know all their goddamn names," was the sharp response, and Alfred could hear him sigh. "I hate when you show all of them whores where we live. The neighbors talk. You know, I don't understand why you don't just marry that nice English girl that lives on the other side of town, the one you went to school with. She's always comin' round. She's a cutie."

"Dad!" Alfred balked, wrenching his head over his shoulder in horror. "_Alice_? You're kidding, right? She's crazy! She bought a bunch of books and tried to make a love potion, _dad_! And I almost _drank _it!" He reached up and rubbed his throat, as the unwanted memory crept over him like the tide.

At his side, Matthew smirked; he _had_ been the one that had prevented the whole mess, after all.

For all the good it had done. Alice just kept on tryin'.

"She's nuts! She used to sit in class and hold entire conversations with herself. No _thanks_. God, _dad_!"

His father only grumbled some half-hearted, unintelligible response, and Alfred resumed his attention to the television with a roll of his eyes.

Silence.

Alfred flipped through the channels with an absent hand. Matthew starting shifting.

"Can we go now, please?"

Matthew's quiet plea was barely audible, and he shrugged a shoulder.

"If you want."

"I do."

Ten minutes and a sandwich later, they were out on the streets again, and they both heaved a sigh of relief. Matthew for reasons that Alfred did not quite comprehend, and _he _just because the streets were where he was the most confident. He was not suffocated out here under his father's strict presence, even though he was not completely at liberty to do as he pleased.

The other boys he hung out with were always on the prowl, and if they saw him it was a sure thing that he would saddle up with them, and oh, how Matthew _hated_ them.

All of them.

And they hated Matthew.

When he was with them, he sometimes did things he wished he didn't. Couldn't help it.

And they always ran into each other, it seemed.

True to form, they had barely gone two blocks before someone was yelling at him.

"Hey! _Hey_! Jones! Why don't you come join us?"

Alfred looked over at the call, where, across the street, his other friends (if they could be called that) were attempting to wave him over.

The same four guys. Always. Confident and brash and loud. Alfred's 'friends', if not his friends. More like partners in crime. He didn't _like_ them, not like he liked Matthew.

But, in the end, they were cool.

Matthew was not.

"Jones, c'mon!"

Alfred smiled, despite himself, and took an automatic step forward, but a scoff at his side made him glance over, and Matthew's look of distaste stopped him dead in his tracks. Before he could run off, damage control was necessary.

"Hey, listen, why don't you—"

Matthew would have none of it.

"Alfred, don't go with them today, please."

A stern command.

Matthew absolutely detested his other acquaintances, but the feeling was mutual, and he knew why; they were bullies, every one of them, the opposite of everything Matthew stood for, and when Alfred was with them a pack mentality was inevitable.

"Hey," one of them jeered, "Come on! Ditch the iceback! Let's go find something exciting!"

Alfred loved Matthew like a brother. He always had.

And yet...

"_Alright_," he called back, excitedly, "Give me a sec!"

They were exciting.

And Matthew was not.

He turned back to Matthew, slapping him on the shoulder fondly, and he did not notice the well-guarded hurt in Matthew's eyes, and took only minimal interest in his low brow and pursed lips. "Listen," he began again, cheerily, "I'm gonna go, but... We can hang out all day tomorrow since I'm off, alright?"

A scoff.

"Sure," Matthew finally muttered back, and tucked his hands in his pockets, stalking off without another word or a glance behind. Alfred stared after him for a moment, and then darted across the street, dodging traffic and joining up with the other boys eagerly.

When he was with Matthew, he was happy.

But when he was with the others...

He felt _powerful_. And there was _no _better feeling than that.

Even though Matthew was his one true friend, even though Matthew was probably the only one that really cared for him, he could not help but laugh when the others would wave him off with gentle insults, and even he, in their presence, never said, 'I was with Matthew'. He would say, 'I was with the frostback', or, 'Sorry, I had to ditch the Canuck.' They would laugh, and he would too.

He didn't really _mean_ it, but he said it anyway.

He was so used to it that he had never even stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, Matthew's feeling were hurt by his thoughtlessness.

But they were only words. More of a fond nickname, right? It wasn't like he actually meant harm, just like his father, and even though he teased Matthew mercilessly, it was all just games.

Matthew knew it was just harmless fun.

...didn't he?

In truth, he did not spend much time dwelling on it, even less when he was more absorbed with his other companions, because they were the exact opposite of quiet, meek Matthew; loud, obnoxious, confident, reckless, fearless and in charge. The things that he thrived on.

He needed that feeling.

Matthew just didn't understand.

And as soon as he had huddled up within them, he took the head of the pack.

"So let's go!"

They fell in behind him, completing the circle, and to add to the almost magnetic appeal, every single one of them were the sons of war vets. Just like him. They had grown up with graphic war stories, as he had.

Matthew could not boast such stories; hell, his parents were pacifists! His mother had worked in a shell factory for a brief time, and for him, that was as interesting as it got.

But this makeshift band of brothers had its fine, sharp edge, and he had to be damn careful about what he said and did; another boy in the group, one Tommy Ryan Jr., was the son of his father's best friend. And _everything_ he did went back to his father, one way or another.

Everything.

Which was why he did anything and everything in his power to avoid the European block, because they hated Germans too, and, well...

The thought of a repeat of _that incident _(which was what his subconscious had labeled _it_ as, in his desperate repression) was too much.

His father's sin.

He didn't go over there. Didn't need to. He didn't need to cause _harm_.

He was content just with the feeling of being in control, as they roamed the familiar streets, Alfred choosing directions and destinations, and when they passed the crowd parted for them like the Red Sea. Everyone knew who they were, and who their fathers were. Everyone either respected them or feared them. Either smiled at them or averted their eyes.

A feeling like no other.

They were vociferous in their taunting as they drifted here and there, and even if Alfred would _never_ say the things he said with them when he was alone, he joined in enthusiastically all the same. It was just _different _when they were together.

He fed off of their anarchy. Peer pressure was a powerful force.

He wouldn't ever do these things by himself.

But he did now.

Before he knew it, they had arrived at Central Park, his favorite hangout, and here he felt at ease.

He loved the outdoors, even more in this time of year.

Late fall. After the long, dreary heat of summer had bled them dry, but before the icy, snow-smothered inconvenience of winter. The trees in the park had already changed color, lighting the skyline up with vibrant, fiery shades of red and orange. The skies were cloudy, the breeze was mild, and he breathed a sigh of contentment as the leaves fell to the ground around him.

Everything was quiet here. A welcome break from the hectic pace of the city. He'd take this place over anywhere else in the entire city.

An escape.

Good things can only last for so long, and only a second was needed for things to turn upside down.

So it was.

A simple romp in the park took a dismal turn, and it was caused by something as simple as a man.

Oh, and what a man.

Alfred saw _him _before the others did, and froze in place.

The German.

His luck. The very thing he strove so hard to avoid.

He recognized him instantly, even from across the way. He was walking his dog, as he often did, and his white-blond hair and straight posture were dead giveaways. And so was his dog; a black German Shepherd wasn't a common sight around here. His clothes were neat and spotless, flawlessly ironed and every detail in place. Hair glossed back to perfection. Boots shining in the pale sunlight. Walking rigidly with an air of awareness, and maybe a bit of anxiety.

He was easy to spot. _Too_ easy, actually.

Alfred shuddered, and tried to divert attention elsewhere, looking off in the other direction. "Come on, guys, let's go—"

But it was too late, and the others had recognized him as well.

"Hey, _look_! There's the Fritz! Come on!"

"I see him! _Ha_!"

He felt his heart skip a beat, and when he looked over his shoulder, they were already halfway across the street.

_Goddammit_. So much for _that_.

He followed behind them, as the adrenaline flowed through his veins like a dreadful tidal wave. This was the last thing he had wanted.

The very last.

He would not have minded if they went after some Italians, or some Russians, or even if they had teased the Chinese vendors. Vandalism would have been just fine. He could have gotten in on that. Hell, he could've even gotten in on some shoplifting.

But that German...

He _knew_.

He would have taken anyone else. Anyone.

The sudden rush of anxiety in his chest could not be pushed away, and by the time he had caught up with the others, they had already set to work tormenting the stone-faced blond.

What could he do? Same old, same old.

"Hey! Kraut!"

"Where ya goin'?"

They trailed behind him, close and rowdy, but the German only walked straight ahead, refusing to look back at them, even though his dog longed to turn, ears perked up and tongue hanging out in excitement.

Friends? No way.

The German gathered up the leash in his hand, allowing no freedom of movement to the curious canine, and sped his pace.

Alfred was torn between hanging back, where he would not have to see or get involved, but if he followed, then it was possible that he could try to moderate a bit. The others respected him, and sometimes, in the right mood, they could be called off.

Sometimes.

What could he do?

"Oh, goddammit," he cursed under his breath, and sought to gain on them.

"Fritz! Hey, we're talkin' to you!"

"You deaf?"

"Maybe he doesn't speak English!"

They were calling after him, but still the German refused to acknowledge them, keeping himself up straight and tall and absolutely unbending. Alfred hoped that they would get bored at his unshakeable calm, as they sometimes did, but maybe not this time.

One of them suddenly burst into laughter, and reached out, shoving the German from behind with all of his might. The blond staggered forward and tripped over his own dog, which he had kept too close to his side. The canine yelped as he stepped on its paw, and the German fell to one knee to avoid stepping on him again.

Alfred's brow furrowed when they shoved him again, when he was down, and he was certain that there would be a confrontation.

Patience was not without its limits. Even for this unshakeable man.

But the German, hands clenched at his sides, only pulled himself to his feet, lifted up his chin, and walked on as though nothing had happened. It had to have hurt his pride, but he gave away nothing. Not a thing. Only calmness, and dignity. Even now.

Alfred was glad that nothing had come of it, and he finally managed to grab one of his friends by the arm to pull him back, when the verbal assault heightened.

A tug.

But they weren't paying attention to him, focused on their prey.

"He doesn't listen, does he?"

"Well, what do you expect from a Nazi?"

"Nazi! Right! Hey, what's that thing they say?"

"Ah—oh! Sieg heil! Hey, Nazi! That's it, right? Sieg heil!"

They poked his back as they said it, so cheerfully, and it was too much.

Too much.

Not the poking. Not the shoving. Not the laughing or the teasing or the cruelty.

_That_ word.

The German's cool exterior finally broke, if only a little, and after a horrible tensing of his shoulders, he whirled around like a viper, his dog turning with him, and the venom in his voice was audible as he cried, "Don't call me that!"

There was a pause of surprise as they stared at him, because the German had _never _talked back.

A long silence.

The German's pulse was visible in his neck as he clenched his jaw.

Alfred's heart started to sink.

The dog started to wag its tail.

Dumb dog.

Then they suddenly burst into merciless giggles at the German's heavy accent, leaning against each other for support as they howled in a manner that may have been more of glee than humor. Alfred tried to laugh with them, but just couldn't.

Nothing came out.

But they didn't notice his reluctance, focused elsewhere, and one of them managed to wheeze, through his laughter, "D-Don't cawl heem zat, you guys!" before finally dissolving.

Fuckin' hyenas.

One of them reached back and nudged him in the side with an elbow as he giggled.

Alfred could only smile, weakly, but the effort quickly fell when the German flushed a terrible shade of red, his humiliation visible all the way down to his collar, and suddenly things weren't so funny.

If they ever had been.

It was just a German, he knew, but Christ, _he _was embarrassed, even, for him, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly, feeling that it was long past time to part ways before the situation got out of hand.

_Again_.

He had caught his friends several times before assaulting this particular German, and good God, how many times had they goaded him into joining? He had laid hands on this platinum blond on at least three separate occasions. Maybe more.

And every time he did...

"Alfred, did you _hear _him? Say it again, Fritz! Come on!"

He gave a flimsy, false laugh, and felt his stomach twist when the ice-blue eyes bored into his own with alarming intensity, as though looking into his very soul. Those _eyes_!

He had looked into those eyes before. On that day.

And every time he did now, a distant memory flashed before him, and when he stood over the beaten German, his friends laughing at his side, he could only see his father, standing the same way over old Mr. Schulze, on that sunny day.

Like looking into a mirror.

Something he had never wanted. Standing over someone else like that.

And the German only ever looked up at him, the hatred easily visible on his face, but he never said a word.

Not a word.

Alfred just kept on flowing down the steady river, making no effort to try to change.

In those moments, he hated himself. He hated his cowardice. He hated his need to conform. He hated the guilt. He hated the memory. He hated _everything_.

The German stared at him. Like he had then. The same look.

Sudden, faint screams of years past echoed in his ears, and he stumbled back, desperate to leave before it all came back to him.

He did not want to remember.

And the German _knew_. He had been there. He had seen. He had seen when Alfred had stood there, motionless on the street.

When he had done _nothing_.

They stared at each other.

Actually, the way he found himself frozen in the German's icy gaze was exceedingly alarming.

No escape.

A movement.

Reaching down to grab his dog's collar, the German narrowed his eyes and finally muttered, lowly, "Leave me _alone_."

Didn't he know that that was what Alfred _wanted_, more than anything? Just to leave him alone, and be left alone in return?

"Come on, guys," he finally said, as soon as he recovered, and he hid the tremor in his voice well, "This is boring!"

And even as he backed up, the German still refused to look away, narrowed eyes burning him.

"Let's go," he urged them, maybe too eagerly, and somehow he broke the piecing gaze, turning on his heel and marching off as his heart pounded in his chest. Their footsteps followed behind, and still they giggled, even in retreat, but he couldn't even respond to their dumb jokes as he sped through the streets.

He was running from a haunting memory that threatened to chase him down.

He tried to flee from it, as he had all these years, and the guilt flowing in his veins made him want to vomit.

Every time he saw that man, he almost remembered. It was supposed to be forgotten.

_That incident_.

Why was it always after him? Why couldn't he just _forget_ about it?

They were only Germans. His father said it every day. Every day. They weren't really _people_. Just Nazi thugs and goose-stepping murderers. And the law must have agreed, because his father had not gone to jail back then. _He_ hadn't been punished, either, for his parts.

Everything said he was right. He was right. So then why couldn't he just _believe_ it, like the others did? It didn't bother them. Never had.

If he could only just stop feeling...

It was catching up to him, slowly and steadily, and he could feel the German's eyes on him long after he had gone.

He ran.

Maybe one day, that icy German could finally understand that he didn't _want_ to become his father, not anymore, even if he did not yet possess the strength to stand on his own two feet. He did not want to live his life under his father's shadow. He did not want to spend his days feeling nothing but hatred.

He wanted something else. He just didn't know _what_.

He just couldn't ever seem to get away from it.

God.

When would he get away from it?


	3. Carousel Waltz

**Chapter 3**

**Carousel Waltz**

Every day was the same.

Endless monotony, ruthless ennui, and even though under any other circumstance Ludwig _liked _monotony and routine and order, this was not what he had had in mind when he had boarded that ship in Hamburg years ago, sailing up the Elbe with only a passport and a dream of the Statue of Liberty and a new life. He had been naïve, then, maybe, but, oh, the word on his tongue had sounded so strange and enticing back then; Manhattan. He had envisioned magnificent stone buildings, Broadway in its glory, a paradise across the ocean.

That had been five years ago. And now...

Now.

He _hated _this city.

He hated the smell of it; rancid and foul and damp, and the gutters were dark and ominous. The air was thick and all but impossible to breathe, heavy with years of smog. The only sight of plant life, apart from the small windowsill flowers and gardens, was out in the park, and even there the sky beheld that oily shimmer of pollution.

He hated the sound of it; never a moment of quiet. There was always the honking of taxis in the street, always the shouts of the pedestrians and the street thugs. Always the bleary lights of a police car, or the shrill cry of an ambulance. He could hear the rain when it fell, but only against the backdrop of a never sleeping city.

He hated the look of it; steel and iron all around, twisting on the skyline like an ugly forest. Style with no substance, ingenuity with no beauty. The windows were reflective, and always alight. In the day by the sun, at night by the lights from within. He had had to put a blanket over his bedroom window to block out the intrusive illumination, just to sleep. He could not see the stars over the haze.

More than anything he hated the _feel _of it; gloomy and so overwhelmingly dismal, and even though he was surrounded on every side by millions of people, he still felt so _lonely_. And it seemed that every day he awoke to the sounds of the bustling city outside, his childish dream of a better life was steadily slipping through his fingers like sand.

For all that happened here, it would perhaps have been more beneficial for him to have simply stayed in Germany. He had been too brash in his decision to cross the Atlantic. Too foolhardy in his confidence.

Maybe so, but...

How could he have stayed _there_?

Just the thought of it made him shudder down to his boots, and, as the sounds of the city alerted him to the start of another languid day, he pulled himself from his bed with a sigh, dragging his feet as he approached his closet. And even though he hated having to step outside and walk down those treacherous streets, he would do so dutifully, if only because it kept his mind off of the past.

And that town.

He would take the beatings and not say a word, because at least here the buildings (hideous though they were) were not full of ghosts and memories and that soul-numbing question of 'what if?'

The lesser of two evils.

He pulled on a tank top, and as he made to the door, he caught his reflection in the mirror, and paused.

As usual.

Because he just didn't _get_ it.

There were plenty of Americans that had blond hair and blue eyes and pale skin. Like his. And there were plenty of Americans that were tall and willowy. Like he was. How many Americans did he see walking down the street that had straight noses and strong jaws? As his were.

So what was it about _him _that stood out so? How did they pick him out from the crowd so effortlessly?

He didn't get it.

Maybe his hair was paler than the blond he usually saw here, and his skin was a bit paler too, and his eyes were a cooler blue. Maybe his legs were too long. Or maybe the bridge of his nose was too narrow. Or maybe it was just because he _looked _like the poster boy of every Aryan stereotype he had ever heard.

But that wasn't fair, and how could he have known when he settled down on this street that he was not welcome?

It wasn't his fault. Who could help how they looked? It didn't seem fair.

He didn't ever bother anyone. No one ever had to call the cops on him for noise complaints, like some of his neighbors. He never caused trouble. He left everyone alone. He paid his bills and went to work, like everyone else. He paid taxes. He had his passport.

But it didn't really seem to matter, and he had slowly come to realize that just his presence here was an annoyance, because in this land, Germans were just Nazis.

He _hated_ that word. They could call him anything they wanted except _that_, because he had _seen_.

In the de-railed train car...

He'd seen.

He shook his head to clear it of the thought, and fled the room, grabbing up a comb as he went. He would not let the memory win, not now, and as he hopped down the stairs, smoothing out his hair, he could swear that he felt the butt of a rifle in the middle of his back.

Like then.

A sudden noise brought Ludwig from his dream state, and he set his comb down on an end-table as he approached the kitchen warily.

A constant state of wariness had been the norm for him lately. It was exhausting, to always expect the worst. But what else was there?

A shuffle from within.

As he crossed the threshold into his tiny kitchen, he realized from the smell that coffee was already made, and when he peered in, there was someone sitting at the table.

A man, with messy brown hair and clothes that had probably never even _seen_ an iron, let alone felt one, and he leaned over a mug of coffee, with bread in hand.

Ah.

Ludwig froze for a second, and then the man turned around, and shot him a lopsided smile through a full mouth.

Ludwig could only shake his head in exasperation, and then he suddenly drew his arms over himself in sudden embarrassment when he realized that he stood in his kitchen in only boxers and a very flimsy shirt. The man before him was unfazed by his red cheeks and virtual nakedness, and Ludwig could only say, sternly, "Antonio! Remind me again why I've given you a key?"

"Becumf am gronmph," was the unintelligible response, as Antonio tried to speak through the bread he was eating, and Ludwig's nose crinkled in disgust.

After a second of noisy chewing, in which Ludwig poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned back against the counter (refusing to be anywhere near the moist breadcrumbs Antonio was spewing all over the table), the brunette finally put the last of it back and rasped, "Because I make good coffee."

Hmm.

He did. He did make good coffee...

"And you," Antonio added, in that strangely accented German that Ludwig liked (how he trilled away those 'r's!), "make really good bread. See? We just help each other out, is all."

Snorting, Ludwig met Antonio's ever dreamy, vibrant emerald eyes, and felt some of his anxiety evaporate. They did help each other, and it was with relief that he came home sometimes to find the cheerful Spaniard sitting on his couch, or raiding his kitchen, or even occasionally sleeping in his bed. And even though he was promptly kicked out, it was always with good humor.

A symbiotic relationship, because Ludwig provided the English-inept Antonio with a helping hand in the sometimes frustrating world of job-searching and bill paying and even just eating out, and it had been _he _who had done all the paperwork for that apartment and those applications to the ESL classes when Antonio had been on the verge of tears of frustration. And Antonio provided Ludwig with...

Well...

Company. Friendship. A brief solace from the hell of the world outside, and, above all, Antonio gave him hope that not all of mankind was as ignorant and hateful as the rest. Because Antonio had never cared that Ludwig was German, and that tiny bit of comfort was worth almost anything.

"Where are we going today?"

"I am going to work, and you are going home."

Antonio smiled up at him from the table, crooning, "Can't I stay here?"

"Absolutely not."

"Don't you like having me around?"

"No," he lied, and Antonio's smile widened.

"Have I been replaced?"

"Hardly."

They met each others eyes, and Ludwig could see the amusement on Antonio's face. His love life (or decided lack thereof) had always been a topic of great interest. He supposed that his quiet solitude and social shyness was just something that adventurous, lively Antonio could simply not understand.

He sat down begrudgingly at the table, wiping it neatly with a cloth, and Antonio leaned in, leering.

"Sure you're not sneaking out to meet someone? A date? Maybe?"

For a second, his good mood foundered. He probably _did _have a date, alright, but it was not the kind that he would have looked forward to, and it seemed that that gang of tormentors had been growing steadily bolder. Before, he had encountered them only on the odd month, if that.

Now, it seemed hardly a week passed before they ran into each other. Was it just terrible luck, or were they so bored that they had nothing better to do than to trail him, like dogs behind a fox?

It was no doubt, he thought bitterly, thanks to that broad-shouldered, bespectacled, arrogant, egotistical, self-satisfied, loud-mouthed, all-American brat that seemed to be their official leader. Ha. Some leader! Letting the pack do his dirty work as he stood on the sidelines, shuffling his feet and looking about this way and that, smiling shiftily until he had been called into action.

The very first time it had happened, Ludwig had saw him shifting his weight oddly, and for a delirious moment thought that he was going to _help_. That he would at least call them off, maybe, but...

He kicked and punched as hard as the rest, albeit stiffly and maybe reluctantly.

But any reluctance he had was surely just cowardice at the chance of being chastised by the lethargic police officers that sat in their cars and barked orders from behind cups of coffee. Because he hated Germans as much as the rest of them, didn't he, and him and his father were a perfect maleficent pair.

He shuddered.

Those two.

Maybe it would one day be his fate to reside on the sidewalk, under the boots of the son, just as that old man across the street (poor old Dieter) had been under the boots of the father.

If it _was_, then dwelling on it with a churning stomach wasn't going to change it, and he tried to come back from the dark when Antonio poked his shoulder, and he realized that he had been speaking the whole while.

"You listening?"

"Yeah," he muttered, and Antonio carried on.

"Anyway, like I was saying... Whatever happened to that sexy little Italian girl that you used to hang around?" He leered, and ran his hands down his waist enticingly as Ludwig rolled his eyes, adding, "You know! The one with the hips? Whew! What was her name? Ophelia?"

"Felicia," Ludwig muttered, and shook his head.

Ah, hell. Better not to think about her.

"Yeah! Why don't you just hook up with her? You two used to be so close! She was always running after you, remember? Saying your name!" Antonio tittered, and imitated in a high-pitched voice, "_Ludovico_! _Ludovico_! It was so cute. What happened?"

Aghast, Ludwig turned at his waist in his chair, meeting Antonio's dreamy eyes with a look of disbelief.

_Really_?

"Her _brother _came up behind me in the market and put a _gun _to the back of my _head_. How could you have _possibly _forgotten this?"

"Oh-ho-ho, yeah!" Antonio crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back, murmuring wistfully, "Luna Lovi! Must'a slipped my mind."

"That's something that, I hope, would be hard to forget."

Especially since it had been Antonio who had knocked the gun away and nearly strangled Luna Lovi with his own tie. So surely he hadn't _forgotten_! It had been a rare moment of serious aggressiveness from the otherwise peaceful Spaniard, and there were no more confrontations whenever Antonio was with him.

Actually, roles had been reversed; when Luna Lovi saw Antonio coming, _he_ ran in the opposite direction.

Ludwig nearly scoffed at the thought of it.

Luna Lovi.

Of course, the entire community knew full well that 'Luna Lovi' was just short for 'Lunatic Lovino', which was the street name of Lovino Vargas, a wannabe Mafioso that had his very own corner (and not much else), and he had had his crazy sights set on Ludwig ever since the first day pretty little Felicia had shuffled over next to him. A shameless Germanophobe with a sailor's mouth and a foul temper, Luna Lovi did everything he could think of to make Ludwig's life a living hell (crank calls, threatening notes pinned with knives to his door, stalking, physical altercations, waving a gun in his face, slapping him in a crowded street, running over his garden, even going so far once as to try to set fire to his backyard) until, finally, it was just too damn much, and he was forced to sever any and all communication with the enticing brunette.

He had even put iron bars on his windows to prevent intrusion.

Enemies on _all _sides.

Oh well.

He wasn't terribly heartbroken, and she certainly wasn't worth all _that_. He had not been interested in a serious relationship with her anyhow.

"She was a terrible flirt, anyway," he grumbled aloud, and rested his chin in his palm as Antonio threw an arm around his shoulders.

"So Luna Lovi overreacted a little bit. Crazy in-laws shouldn't stand in the way of true love." He grinned, shaking Ludwig enthusiastically as though scrambling his brain enough would make him reconsider.

Yeah right.

Ludwig bowed his head in exasperation, grunting, "Overreacted? We weren't even _fucking _and he nearly _whacked_ me. Christ, I hadn't even _kissed _her. I think I'm better off by myself for now." After a moment, he amended, "For_ever_, actually."

"Ah," Antonio threw back, nonchalantly, "Don't worry about it. Good things to those who wait and so forth and so on..."

A final firm shake of camaraderie from Antonio, and they fell silent.

Looking up at the clock, Ludwig saw with a pang that it was almost time to set out. He would have longed for nothing more than to bar the door and sit here with Antonio and never set foot outside again, but bills did not just go away.

A terrible fact of life that he had learned _far_ too soon.

"I've got to go," he said, standing, and Antonio's face fell a little.

"Aw."

"Sorry," he responded, as he set aside the cold coffee and quickly disappeared up the stairs.

Work, work, work.

Here everything was just work.

No time for much else.

Honestly, he hadn't really known it would be this _hard_.

He'd been an idiot, through and through.

Too late now.

He sifted through his closet, and now his face fell as much as Antonio's.

When he picked out his clothes before, he used to wear his best; crisp whites and neatly ironed pants, looking to impress the world and himself.

But now?

He wore grey and black, because dirt and sweat and blood were harder to wash out of white than they were on black.

Every routine had become sinister.

From his bedroom, he passed into the bathroom, and set about morning routines; shaving, glossing his hair, brushing his teeth.

Mundane.

When he was ready to go, he tromped down the stairs and headed to the front door, and Antonio called from behind, "Do you want me to come with you?"

That was a routine too. Antonio knew damn well (although he had never been privy to) what happened out there on the streets, and Ludwig knew that he longed to tag along and make himself useful, and oh _God_, how he would have loved to see Antonio strangle that American brat with the collar of his leather jacket à la Luna Lovi.

But...

"No, thanks."

"...alright. See you later."

Antonio's offer was always turned down, and even though the Spaniard assumed it was just stubborn bullheadedness and maybe a care of the well-being of someone other than himself, there was a simpler explanation:

Pride.

His pride was, after all, all he had left, and Christ almighty, how could he ever look Antonio in the eye again if he had seen him on one of _those _days?

Those days.

If he ever saw him pinned up against the wall of an alley, helpless and overwhelmed, held in place as he was beaten within a breath of consciousness. If he ever saw him doubled over, gasping for breath on the pavement, bloody and bruised and using his arms to defend his head. If he ever saw him after, as he walked home slowly and unsteadily, trying to keep his chin up as the girls saw his beaten appearance and giggled. If he saw him inside, lying on his side on the couch and burying his face in a pillow as he tried not to just give up all hope.

And even though he refused to cry out under their torment (by God, he would _not _cry out) it was still unbearable to imagine someone he knew seeing him like _that_.

That Antonio would ever see him in such a state.

His pride would probably kill him one day.

At least inside the little bakery where he worked, there was a world of calm and quiet. No one bothered him there. He was not even in public sight, spending his time in the back, kneading dough and tending the brick oven, his apron and clothes covered in flour.

Ha.

His boss raised a brow every time he came in, and always asked, with hand on hip, why he wore black clothes when he worked with flour. White would have been better.

He only smiled half-heartedly, and shrugged a shoulder.

They did not speak much to him, and he did not have any friends aside from Antonio, not real friends. No one that would ever call him at home just to say 'hello'. He had no family here.

He didn't have family anywhere.

He was alone.

Maybe that was why he was the most frequent target, because he always traveled alone, always walked alone, lived alone. He had no one who would back him up.

Easy.

And whenever he left work, he walked as fast as he could down the street, tense and aware of his surroundings. It was only a few blocks, but it always felt like an eternity. It was a shame, to not be able to walk outside without feeling so apprehensive. He looked over his shoulder frequently, and yet somehow they always snuck up on him.

Every single time.

Today, he realized, when the sun was low on the horizon and he was leaving the shop to go home for the night, would be no different, and he had barely gone three blocks before he heard the giggles from behind.

Damn.

Another day...

Same old, same old.

With a clench of his jaw, he steadied himself, lifted his head, and walked on. Either it would be taunting, or it would be physical, but he would not stop. He would not give them the time of day. He would not give them the pleasure of seeing him break composure. Maybe one of these days they might even get bored of him.

He could hope.

Like everything else, it was a routine.

First came the names.

"Hey, there Kraut! Where ya goin'?"

Been there.

Then came the shoves.

"Why don't you just go back wherever ya came from, huh?"

Done that.

And then...

"Hey! Come'ere!"

A hand on his upper arm, one hard pull, a stumble into the alley, and he was pressed against the wall, and they stood around him on either side.

Like always.

It only took a second, and he could not help but admire the way they had turned bullying into an art form; if they spent even half of the time _thinking_ that they spent planning out their maps of warfare, they might have been rather successful by now. They certainly knew the streets, and even his routine, and they moved together like a school of fish, mimicking each other flawlessly.

Certainly a skill, if not a cruel one.

The dirty bricks of the alley wall were pressing into his shoulder blades.

A moment of silence, as he stood completely still before them, reluctant to provoke an early attack, and quickly looked both ways for an escape. But there was none, and as he looked at them, he realized their leader was absent.

He almost snorted in amusement at the thought that they could think and function without being directed.

Go figure. Well, the fewer the better.

Two of them were suddenly at his sides, grabbing his arms and pinning him in, and he braced his feet.

Someone leaned in next to him (who the hell knew their names, anyway?), and whispered, "You got a lot of nerve being here. My old man stormed Normandy and got shot by you fuckin' Jerry."

_Normandy_.

He closed his eyes.

Carry on. Just words.

"Not mine," came another voice. "My daddy shot down Nazis over London. Took out seventeen before the war was over."

"Mine was a paratrooper. Landed in France and wiped out a whole barn full of Jerry."

_So what? _he longed to retort. _He _had never killed anyone. He had never been behind a machinegun. He had never flown in the _Blitzkrieg._ He had never been in the bowels of a _Panzer_. He had never...

"Mine liberated a camp in Dachau."

Camp.

Dachau.

The name shook him from his numb stupor, and he could not help but panic. He would not listen to this. And Dachau was all in the past, _all_ of it was, and he would not let himself remember anything about it.

The past. It was done. Over. It couldn't happen again.

The war was over.

He panicked.

The urge to flee was too great, and he suddenly struggled against them, breaking one arm free before he was forced back into place, and they sprung.

People walked by, but no one stopped. No one cared if a gang of American boys were beating up a German in an alleyway. He was only a German. He had no status here.

No one _cared_.

He'd learned that long ago.

'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.'

He'd memorized that line by heart, struggling to figure out the pronunciation and to remember the words, but he'd done it. He just hadn't known, back then, that there had been an unspoken line at the end of that hopeful proclamation.

'Unless they're German, then you can keep them.'

Ha!

Dumb. He'd been so fuckin' dumb.

The best thing to do now was just to drift off, and ignore the pain.

Think of something else. Anything.

They were relentless, tireless, but after long minutes the pummeling stopped, for just a moment, and, as he heaved to catch his breath, he could hear them shouting at someone.

"Jones!"

Of course.

He looked up, squinting through the pain, and sure enough, on the other side of the street was the absent member of the group, walking briskly. He stopped at their cries, and looked over, and when he saw them he smiled and took a step forward, a bright look on his face.

"Come on!"

And then he suddenly stopped, dead cold in the street, and Ludwig could see that his smile had faded, as they locked eyes briefly.

He didn't move.

A short silence, and then, surprisingly, he backed away.

"Jones! Hey, Jones! Where are you going?"

"I'm late for something," was the too-quick, almost anxious response, and Ludwig watched with a furrowed brow as he sped off, hands in his pockets, looking over his shoulder with a guarded expression. His friends waved him off with chides, and when he came to the end of the block, he went around it, and they looked away.

Ludwig did not, and it was to his surprise when the American brat (Jones, as they cooed so fondly) poked his head around the corner, as though he were spying on something he should not.

A slap to his face broke Ludwig's stare for only a second, and when he looked back, he found himself locked into a pair of dark-blue eyes, and it was then that he realized absurdly that Jones had a black eye too. Street fighting, no doubt. His fingers gripped the edge of the building as he spied, and his stance seemed the same as always; confident and proud and sure.

But there was something strange swirling behind those glasses, something that he could not quite put his finger on, and he was suddenly thrown back into that very first time, when he had foolishly thought that Jones would come to his aid.

Because it _looked _as though he wanted to, but maybe he was misreading, and maybe that strange light was just the longing to join in.

But if he were really late, as he said, then why was he lingering?

Maybe...

Oh, _God_, let Jones step forward and help, intervene, distract them, call them away, shoo them off, _anything_!

It would only lead to downfall and more bitterness than he already had, he was sure of it, but, _oh_, he longed to believe that Jones would suddenly cross the street and grab his friends and pull them away, and let him just go _home_, just this once.

Just once.

Jones did not move, frozen in place, and they stared at each other as though through a fog, and he could see the apprehension, even from across the street.

Reluctance. And something else.

Accusation?

Almost as though...

It was absurd and foolish, and _unfair_, but he was certain that Jones looked at him with such a severe brow and such pursed lips because he was trying to say that this whole thing was...

The intense stare was broken when Jones suddenly turned away and rounded the corner, disappearing into the crowd and taking with him that small shard of hope, and Ludwig was thrust back into the dark, with only that strange, burning gaze left to keep his mind company as the fists assaulted his body. He could not help but feel a little dazed at the look that had been on the American's face.

He was almost too _incredulous_ to feel the fist that landed in his stomach, almost too stunned with disbelief to feel the fingers digging into his arms, because he was certain now what Jones was trying to tell him.

...it was _his _fault.

_Selfish_.

Everything was _his _fault.

_Ignorant_.

It was his fault.

Because he had had the nerve, the _audacity_, to have been born a German.


	4. Skater's Waltz

**A/N **: For the record, I am purposefully not physically describing Alfred's father, so that way you can superimpose whoever's face onto him that you want. Why, you could even envision your own father, if your relationship with him is so lacking, as mine is. Personally, I'm envisioning a generic racist father plucked out of cliché football movies like 'Remember the Titans' and 'Radio'. XD

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

**Skater's Waltz**

It was only obligation to his uncle.

Because Alfred would never have willingly set foot into the European market, holding bags in every hand and being used as nothing more than a rather handsome donkey, if it were not for a strong obligation to his uncle, to whom he owed at _least _this much, maybe more, and also to whom Matthew owed a bit of money.

Surrounded by short, stocky women wearing scarves and unusual sights and smells, he glanced over at Matthew, who held so many bags that his head could scarcely be seen above them, and he asked aloud, "What else do we need, again?"

A good distance ahead, flouncing this way and that between stalls with a sense of self-assurance, Francis looked over his shoulder and answered, breezily, "_Brioche_!"

"What's that?"

"Bread. Or maybe it's more like cake to you."

"Cake-bread? Gross."

Francis waved him off with a hapless hand, and Alfred and Matthew watched with mild annoyance as he leaned over a stall full of different cheeses, although it appeared as though he was more interested in purchasing the woman behind it rather than her wares.

"Well," Matthew grumbled at his side, shifting his weight as the bags threatened to fall, "At least it's only once a month."

Thank God for small favors.

He furrowed his brow, and resumed his pace dutifully when his uncle freed himself from the charms of the vendor and carried on.

Even though he did not like being in the European community for any period of time, and even though he liked even less being used as a glorified bag boy, he did enjoy the time that was spent with his uncle, no matter how short or in what circumstance.

Sundays were a reprieve from his father's domineering aura, and as soon as he left the house to spend the day with his gruff war buddies, Alfred would first run to gather Matthew, and would then slink off and appear on his uncle's doorstep, like clockwork. Francis was always happy to see them, and it was more important than anything else in the world that there was someone who would smile at him and offer him fatherly words without expecting anything of him in return.

He did not remember his mother, but he hoped that she had been everything that Francis was; soft-spoken and gentle and forgiving, with a calm voice and comforting hands. He could not see himself in Francis, but Francis was always quick to say that he had the look and manner of his mother.

Something about that was both enthralling, and then disheartening, that he had never really had the chance to get to know her.

For Alfred, Francis was all that remained now of his mother.

And, oh how his father _hated _the French-born Francis. He hated everything about him, right down to his hair, and it was only with the greatest of efforts that he managed to control his outbursts in the brief moments that they did encounter themselves together (the odd Christmas, or Thanksgiving), limiting himself to only a half-hearted frog joke or a quick 'Pierre'.

Alfred liked to think that it was lingering concern for his mother's honor that kept his father in line.

Such awkward encounters.

"Alright!" Francis suddenly said, and Alfred heaved a sigh when he realized that they were finally finished.

He glanced at his watch; two hours. Well, a new speed record had been broken. That was hopeful, at least.

"Are we done?" Matthew asked hopefully, in disbelief, and they held their breath until they had stepped out from beneath the covered market and back into the pale sunlight.

Only then did they sigh in relief, and followed Francis from behind, loaded down.

Francis wasn't even carrying a single bag.

...okay, well, he could be kind of a jerk. But Alfred loved him all the same.

"I hope it snows soon," Francis muttered from ahead, and Alfred glanced up at the grey skies.

"Well, it looks like—"

"_No! No!_"

"—it might! Maybe...tonight."

The hell?

He turned his head to the other side of the street, raising his eyes above his bags curiously. He could have sworn, for a moment, that he had heard someone screaming.

He saw nothing.

Huh.

He turned back straight ahead, brushing it off, and Matthew and Francis were walking on as normal, but the crease in Francis' brow made him wonder if he had just been hearing things after all.

"_I'll kill you!_"

There it was again.

He straightened up, slowly coming to a complete halt as he struggled to pinpoint the location, eyes scanning across the way as his shoulders tensed.

"_No_!"

It had to be from around the corner.

Screeching and cursing.

Feeling a burn of adrenaline in his veins, he leapt forward, shoving all of the bags into Francis' arms with eagerness.

"Here!" he cried, and he could feel his heart begin to race, and he was _always _looking for an opportunity to help someone.

Anyone. Didn't even matter who it was or why.

He loved playing the role of hero. It was a high like nothing else, and it was not because of the act of helping itself; it was the reaction afterwards. In complete truth, he was not always overly concerned with the well-being of those he helped, but God, to hear them later! Praising and thankful, their words of gratitude inflating his ego and self-satisfaction to nearly criminal levels.

Was it such a bad thing? He did not think so. Someone got the assistance that they needed, and he got a dose of desperately needed self-worth.

He'd do just about anything to feel a little better about himself.

A win-win. Most of the time.

So why was Matthew always so goddamn _worried_? Why did Francis always shake his head and look alarmed?

He didn't get it.

They were always on his case.

And sure enough, as soon as he had taken a step forward, he heard a hissed, "_Alfred_," from Matthew behind him; a warning, and he froze in his tracks, looking over his shoulder guiltily.

The screaming was getting louder. Closer.

They were watching him intensely, Francis frowning, and Matthew was shaking his head.

He twitched, _longing _to go on and see what was happening.

Oh, man. Couldn't they understand?

"I won't be long," he ventured, eagerly, but Francis cut him short with a stern brow.

"Curiosity killed the cat."

They were always so worried about _everything_, and the sound of screaming to them was an instant deterrent. After all, Francis had said it himself that he was 'a lover not a fighter', and Matthew would go to hell and back to avoid a confrontation.

He should have listened to them, he _knew_, but...

"_Bastard_!"

But his curiosity was just too strong.

"Yeah, but cats have nine lives!"

"Alfred! Wait!"

He didn't.

"I'll be right back!"

And with that, ears perked up and eyes alert, he darted off across the street, and from behind he heard Matthew lament to Francis as he went, "He doesn't listen! He never listens! Why doesn't he _listen_?" and Francis only sighed. In his mind's eye, he could see them shaking their heads in exasperation.

They just didn't understand. They never had. The urge to play the role of savior was too strong to simply stay put on the side. Danger did not concern him. He was not afraid of physical altercations.

He knew no fear.

He only wanted to be _needed_ by _someone_.

It didn't matter to whom.

With ready arms and shining eyes, he burst onto the other street, and rounded the corner.

He'd do anything to feel good.

If only for a moment.

* * *

><p>Thank God for Sundays.<p>

The bakery was closed, most people stayed home, and Ludwig was more than happy to follow suit and spend the entire day on his couch, gazing up at the ceiling with lazy contentment as his dog licked his hand.

And it had been going according to plan too, until his dog had started whining, and a run to the kitchen's floor cabinet had revealed a decided lack of dog food.

Damn.

He had blamed it on the canine, of course, and had glowered down at him with a stern brow, saying decisively, 'You eat too damn much,' and when he had received only a tilted head of incomprehension and another whine, he had grabbed up his coat and set out, sighing.

Always something.

Nice outside, though.

The day was cool and clouded, and he had felt hardly any anxiety when he had started outside, because he headed in the opposite direction of when he went to work, and the street punks rarely ventured deep into the European block.

He could walk more loosely now, with his shoulders down and hands tucked into his pockets. And even though he would still have preferred a companion, Antonio was surely out gallivanting, so he would just have to make it quick.

But there wasn't a lot of danger here, as long as he kept to himself.

He found the nearest store, only a few blocks from the Sunday market, where he always bought his chow, and he had just tossed the heavy bag over his shoulder and laid a five on the counter when he had the strange sensation that he was being watched.

Unnerving.

He stepped out, briskly, and he could swear that someone was following him.

He _hated_ that feeling.

And he was right about it, too. As always.

"Ludwig!"

The croon of his name from behind made him freeze in his tracks, and he could not help but shudder. He knew _that _voice, and, sure enough, as though from thin air, there was Felicia at his side, saddling up and sliding her hand into his loose one with a smile.

For a second, he was too stunned to move, because he had assumed that she had taken the _hint_...

"_Ludovico_," she began, chidingly, "You don't ever come to see me anymore!"

...because had he not explained to her exactly _why_ they could no longer meet?

Oh. Shit.

His first coherent thought.

They stood there in silence for a moment, and he felt a little dumb, dressed in clothes that were a little too big and standing there with a huge bag of dog food over his shoulder, probably looking more than a little shoddy when Felicia was so pretty.

Shoddiness aside, she squeezed his hand and bounced up on her toes, and he came back to earth with a dumb, "H-hi!"

She broke into a great smile.

"Hi!"

Had she been planning this? Because she was dressed in her best, hair perfectly styled, nails neat and trimmed, putting on her best pout, and he could feel his resolve wavering already.

Not good.

Yet he could not bring himself to smile at her, even though she was beautiful, and even though she was running her index and middle finger up his arm in such a teasing manner, he could not keep his eyes on her. He found himself taking slow steps forward, looking over either shoulder apprehensively, and the anxious shuffling of the bag on his shoulder was not because of Felicia's playful fingers, nor was the nervousness in the pit of his stomach because of her sensual brushes.

"Ludovico! I _miss _you! I know you said we shouldn't meet, but I miss you so much I can't stand it!"

His heart raced so because wherever Felicia was...

"Will you spend the day with me? Just today?"

...Lovino was not far behind.

"_Please_?"

She gave him an enthusiastic tug, and when he stumbled forward it was her hands that reached out and steadied him, and she looked so _happy_. Just to see him?

His common sense and ego were suddenly at war, and when they reached his house, he had time only to set the bag down on the steps before she had tugged him back out. He had not intended to let her have her way, but she was stubborn. It was kind of like talking to a rock.

...a really, really pretty rock.

A _really_ pretty rock.

Well. He pricked up his ears, looked both ways, and when he did not see or hear Lovino, he heaved a defeated sigh, foundering effectively under her big, brown eyes.

"Oh, alright."

"Alright!" she chirped, and clung to his arm, and as she nuzzled her face in the fabric of his shirt, he dropped his guard. Even if he did not necessarily love her as much as she would have liked (not like _that_), she was pretty and friendly and touchy, and it felt good to be have someone holding him so affectionately. Her hands were soft, and gentle, and he could not help but blush when she reached up and ran her palm down his jaw line tenderly.

"Ludovico, you're so handsome, you know! You're the best looking guy in this whole city, _I _think!"

Hell, he wouldn't deny it : she was adorable. In every sense. Sweet. Maybe she was a flirt, and maybe he'd seen her doing similar things as this to other guys on the block, but she didn't mean anything by it. It wasn't malicious or devious. She wasn't trying to break any hearts.

She just wanted to make guys feel better.

Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. Sometimes, he wondered if she had ever really even fallen in love with anyone. She'd honed in on him more than anyone else, sure, but maybe she had just seen how lonely he was.

She was a good person, and a good friend.

Shame that she brought such bad things behind her.

There had been a time when he was certain that he loved her, and that she loved him. But maybe that had only been a great friendship. Maybe he'd read it all wrong. Maybe she had been sent to earth to soothe lonely souls.

That seemed to make sense.

He couldn't ever hold it against her. Anyway, he didn't mind being around her, he really didn't, if he could get away with it.

He liked her gentle hands.

The only person, aside from Antonio, who had ever been nice to him here.

"Come on, walk with me!"

Without waiting for a response, she took his hand, and began to pull him down the street. His cheeks flushed red as they walked through the crowd, knowing that everyone would assume that she was his girlfriend, even though she was not, although why this was so embarrassing to him he could not exactly say.

She liked him. He liked her. But it wasn't like _that_.

Well, he didn't _think_. He'd be the first to admit he didn't know anything about this.

Not that it would be so bad, mind...

They passed shops and restaurants, and she never let go of his hand even for a second, and at every street she popped up on her toes and kissed his cheek fondly as they waited for the crosswalk light to change. He ducked his head abashedly, and she smiled.

Was she not ashamed, to be seen with him? He was grateful.

"You should speak more, Ludovico! I love your voice. It's as sweet as you are."

He coughed, awkwardly, feeling an idiotic smile slowly creep over his face.

Well...

She was certainly charming.

A change of the light, and she was leading him again, the heels of her shoes clicking on the sidewalk. At every shop they passed, she would turn her head and gawk through the window at the items, 'ooh'ing and 'ahh'ing enthusiastically.

He wondered, absurdly, if he was expected to stop at any point and buy her something. Flowers? Clothes? Shoes? He knew nothing about these matters.

Damn! Where was Antonio when he needed him?

"Ludovico," she suddenly crooned, "let's go see a movie! Would you like that? To see a movie with me?" She reached up and tugged his collar playfully, pulling him down to her height, and for a terrible, heart-racing second, he thought that she was going to kiss him, but then she smiled and rubbed her nose against his. "Would you?"

Yes, please.

He opened his mouth, and had nearly said, 'Sure!' when there was suddenly another hand on his collar, but it was not Felicia's, and it was not soft and gentle, and with one mighty pull he had been broken out of her hands. He staggered back, barely catching himself, and when he finally regained his balance, he was filled with a different kind of heart-racing terror.

Luna Lovi.

Great.

He stood there, short and stocky, so angry that he was literally bristling (the hairs on his arms were stuck up), eyes wide and mouth open, and for a moment, Ludwg could only gawk back at him without absolute horror.

Oh, _really_?

Luna Lovi looked like he was about to blow a fuckin' gasket, and the expression on his face was clearly disbelief. That Ludwig had _dared_ to disobey his order to stay away from his sister.

A thick silence, as they stared at each other.

The storm burst.

"You_—_You_ bas__tard_!" the irate maniac finally shrieked, and he came forward, reaching out and shoving Ludwig back with all of his might. Felicia came forward, too, and grabbed handfuls of her brother's shirt in a vain attempt to keep him back.

"Lovino! _No_! _Non colpirlo_!"

They screeched at each other, as Ludwig tried to edge backwards carefully.

He was too slow.

Lovino broke free of his sister, and stalked forward again, and for a second Ludwig was too stunned to do anything except raise his hands in the air as if to say, 'Hey, she came after me!'

Lovino was not sold.

Another great shove backwards, and he could only stare with wide eyes and try to keep calm, reluctant to shove back if only for Felicia's sake, and God, he was so _sick _of fighting.

He would not raise his hand, no matter how hard Lovino pushed him. Felicia expected more of him.

"I told you to stay away from her!"

"_Lovino_! _No_!"

One more shove, and then the world stopped short :

Luna Lovi pulled out a gun.

Oh, goddammit. Here he was again. And Antonio was not here to intervene.

The atmosphere changed quickly, and, feeling his breath leave him, Ludwig turned on his heel and stalked off down the street in a meager attempt to appease the aptly named Italian.

Because Lovino truly was, in every sense of the word, a fuckin' lunatic.

He conceded defeat, and fled.

But still Lovino came after him (_why_?), screeching every obscenity known to man, and with each cry he brought down the butt of his gun on Ludwig's back.

He ground his teeth at the dull ache, but did not turn around, and he did not stop walking, even as Felicia warbled behind them and flailed around, trying to grab her brother by his shirt and keep him at bay. Lovino would not be held back.

A bee, protecting his honey from a bear.

A particularly vicious blow made him wince.

"I knew you would still come after her!

Another sharp pain.

"Bastard! You goddamn son of a whore!"

Another jab of the gun's handle in his shoulder.

"If I ever see you near her again, I swear I'll kill you!"

Another blow. Did he never relent? Felicia better find a way to call him off soon, or else he might have to take care of this himself, whether he wanted to or not.

"Hear? Hear? I'll kill you! She's too good for you! Leave her—"

Another...

An odd shuffle.

...nothing.

Luna Lovi gave a sudden, strangled sound of protest, and the blow that he had expected did not come.

Just silence.

For a breathless moment Ludwig found himself coming to a halt, if only from curiosity.

From behind, he could hear noises; someone struggling, the sounds of a scuffle, and then a strangely familiar voice screeched, "What the _hell _are ya' _doin'_? Give me that!"

Lovino began to curse and spit in a strange mixture of English and Italian, and then there was a slap, and Lovino's voice was suddenly farther away, Felicia's too, and then there was nothing more.

After a second of calm, and quiet, there was suddenly a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, are you alright?"

And somehow, that innocent question was worse than any oath Luna Lovi could utter. Because he _knew_ that voice.

Oh, no.

No.

He shuddered, certain that he was hearing things, had to be hearing things, and after a deep inhale to gather himself, he braced his feet and turned around.

His heart sank.

Oh _no_.

It _was_ him. Jones.

Standing in the street, hair tousled and jacket wrinkled from his impromptu wrestling match, he held Luna Lovi's gun within his hand, and behind his glasses his eyes were wide and startled.

A moment of complete silence, and neither of them moved, the world stopping around them in a whirlwind of complete and utter disbelief. The crowd passed by as though a blur. The sound of the city was nothing more than a garbled, incomprehensible mess, and he felt more like he had just stepped into a dead zone rather than a bustling city.

Jones' hand was warm and firm on his shoulder, and he realized that they were almost exactly the same height, himself a little taller, and from the churning in Jones' eyes, it was obvious that something exceedingly profound had occurred.

Time froze.

Why, oh why, did it have to be _him_?

They could not speak.

Jones' eyes were boring painfully into his own.

Then someone bumped into them, as they were blocking the sidewalk, and everything sped back up with dizzying force.

They each _realized_ exactly who it was that stood before them, and it was Jones who reacted first, and he drew his hand back as though burned, managing to sputter, "Y-_you_!"

Ludwig only narrowed his eyes and straightened his coat with unsteady hands, sparing himself no time for petty conversation.

What would he say?

_Thanks_? Yeah, right.

But even so, his eyes lingered on the gun that Jones held in his hand, and it was only his instilled politeness that kept him stuck in place, and he watched as Jones lifted his coat and tucked the gun into his waistline.

"Man," he grumbled to himself, shaking his head, "That was kinda close."

When he did not respond, Jones glanced up at him, and straightened his glasses, watching him with a look that was not easy to read. It unnerved him, being so close to his nemesis, and in such a bad position (that of gratitude!), but it was even worse that he could not see any aggression in the American brat's stance. Then, at least, he could have justified turning and walking off.

Jones just stood there, shoulders slouched and brow creased, and then he spoke again, his voice so low and deep that Ludwig could barely hear it over the crowd. Barely a whisper.

A question :

"Why don't you ever fight back?"

He opened his mouth, lost his voice, and turned his eyes to the ground. What kind of question was that? There were many reasons he did not fight back. Certainly his own desire for peace was one. Another was because it was just easier to lay there, and get it over with. Or because fighting back would only make it worse. Or because he would probably be arrested, just because.

Because he could be deported, and he couldn't go back _there_.

But an completely honest answer would perhaps have been that he did not fight back because some part of him thought that it was his duty to accept such treatment, because his countrymen had done such horrible things, even though it was not _his _fault, and maybe the darker part of his mind thought that he deserved it.

There was no way he could put such sentiments in to words, even for Antonio. Less so for Jones, and he only stared at the pavement, shoulders tense.

Jones took a step forward, and opened his mouth, almost as though he were going to initiate some kind of weird greeting, and Ludwig's heart raced terribly, but then...

Another storm.

"_ALFRED_!" came a furious bellow from behind, and then something hard knocked him on the side of the head, enough to send dots of light dancing before his eyes. He reached up instinctively, infuriated and somewhat dazed, as a blur rushed by him, but his sharp words of caution died in his throat when he realized what was happening.

Shock.

A clamminess came over him, because it had been Jones' old man that blown past him like a hurricane, sucker-punching him as he went, and now he was grabbing Jones' collar and shaking him violently for all to see.

In front of everyone.

Ludwig could only stare at them with a horrified numbness, and shrank back when Jones' father slapped his son's cheek and pointed in Ludwig's direction, screaming in the most terrible voice he had ever heard.

"—leave you for a _second_! If I hadn't seen it I wouldn't have fuckin' believed it! I don't _ever _want to see you _talking _to this kike-killer again! Do you hear me? No son of _MINE_—"

"Dad, I was just—"

"_Embarrassing _me in front of everyone! What's _wrong _with you? Boy, you're gonna get a beating like you've never known, I swear you that!"

"_Dad_!"

Everyone was staring in embarrassment, alright, but for once it was Ludwig who stood in the crowd and watched as Jones' father twisted his fist in the collar of his son's jacket and then began to haul him off down the street, and he could hear them arguing as they went, although Jones' cries seemed more like half-hearted explanations and pleas. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he struggled to match his father's pace, and then he was all but being dragged, and people on the street turned away and walked on like nothing had happened.

Surreal, being on the other end for once. Not entirely unpleasant. Okay, maybe that was a little cold.

The crowd vanished.

Ludwig stood frozen in place, furrowing his brow as he rubbed absently at the bump on his head, and for the first time, his hatred for Jones was mingled with something else that he could not quite place.

Something that felt oddly like pity, and he realized now that Jones' black eye had not come from a street fight, but from his own sire.

He quickly pushed that pity aside, and the more he thought about, it seemed more like poetic justice at its best. Maybe the brat was finally getting a taste of his own medicine.

But. Well. Maybe...

Goddamn, he didn't know exactly _what _it was that was running through his mind. It was too disjointed to grasp a hold of, and he could only stare in their wake, silently.

Not something he had ever imagined he'd see. Kinda wished he hadn't. For one reason or another.

Well.

Life went on. Same old.

Then he turned on his heel and ambled off, eyes firmly on the pavement as he walked.

His head hurt.

Jones was still his mortal enemy. Nothing had changed with this outburst. Even _if _Jones had intervened in Lovino's path. But that had just been an accident, hadn't it? He had not realized that it was just the _Fritz_ that he was rescuing, had he?

No.

And even though he had lingered...

_Why don't you ever fight back?_

He scoffed to himself, mind racing, and if ever the situation arose for Jones to ask him that question again, he knew now what he would respond with :

_Why don't _you_?_

Dumb Jones.

This changed nothing.


	5. Masquerade Waltz

**Chapter 5**

**Masquerade Waltz**

Lethargy.

Aching. His head hurt like hell. Ribs on fire and when he walked, his leg threatened to give out on him. Pulled a muscle, maybe.

But, for it all, it could be worse. He'd had worse.

A nice day out. Windy.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," was the cool response.

"I'm glad."

He'd said 'fine'.

In actuality, he felt pretty damn _shitty_, and as he crawled out of his window and into the pale afternoon sun, Matthew waiting down below, Alfred could not help but wince. Because _damn_, was he sore, even after a week, and every movement was a dull, throbbing ache. His black eye had not even had time to heal before it had been renewed. His chest hurt. His stomach hurt.

Despite it all, though, it was a pretty day, mild and cool, and Matthew's face always made him feel a little better. Besides, he really _had_ had worse.

"Come on," Matthew said, in that soft, calm voice that Alfred enjoyed in quieter moments, "Let's get something to eat."

His feet his the ground, and Matthew reached out to touch his arm.

He brushed it off. He didn't need nor desire sympathy.

He was fine.

"Good deal," Alfred said, as soon as he gathered up his bearings, and when he took the first step forward, he forced him to step straight and smooth even as his leg wanted to cramp up and force him into a limp.

He was too proud to limp, and ignored the pain with surprising skill as he walked down the street, Mathew firmly at his side.

Small talk. Chatter.

As they rounded the block, Alfred looked back over his shoulder. Just in case.

His father was watching television, no doubt, and Alfred was _supposed_ to be on lock-down.

Not that the old man would ever know if he snuck out of his window; hell, he'd been doin' that for years. In all honesty, Alfred didn't really think that his father really cared whether or not he was still in his room, just as long as he wasn't being a bother. That was alright with him, too, because he did not much feel like looking at the old son of a bitch right now anyway.

He'd rather just be alone.

But Matthew was alright.

A few blocks later, when fighting off the urge to limp was getting to be a pain, they came up to the front of a tiny diner that he and his old man had frequented in days past. Good memories. Days when his father had still been a hero.

Times that were slipping away.

Following Matthew's lead, he stepped through the door, into the bubbly atmosphere and the bright colors, and threw himself down into a booth.

It was almost a little too cheery in here to suit his mood.

Matthew settled in across from him, and as the waitress brought them their sodas, Matthew's tried to smile. More small talk.

"So. You wanna go walkin' in the park today?"

His leg hurt.

"Not really."

Matthew's smile fell.

"Oh, well. Maybe next time."

Matthew's eyes were firmly settled on his face, and Alfred tried to ignore his gaze for as long as possible, knowing goddamn well what he was thinking and what he was eventually going to say.

It didn't take long.

"Alfred."

He shifted in the booth, and turned his gaze to the window to watch people pass.

"What?"

A hesitation.

"You gotta be more careful, Alfred," Matthew whispered, and it was with a strangely heartwarming concern that he leaned across the table and took Alfred's rough hand within his own smooth one, adding, "I mean, I think you were really brave and all, but sometimes bravery can be _really _close to stupidity, and—"

"It wasn't _stupidity_," he threw back, snatching his hand out from Matthew's and leaning back into the booth as his head started pounding all over again.

He did _not_ want to have this conversation.

"It was just shitty luck! How could _I_ have known? How the hell was I supposed to know it was the goddamn Kraut? Christ! God, if I had just paid more attention! Don't even know how I missed it."

Eyes closed in weariness, he did not see Matthew's brow lower testily. Maybe that was for the best.

He just wanted to go to sleep.

A stern hiss.

"Alfred, I wish you wouldn't call him that."

The irritation intensified, and not even the blinding red tables and paint could salvage his mood.

Going down, down, down.

"Oh, come off it, Matt, he's just a goddamn Fritz, and I'm sick of gettin' my ass beat because of him."

Matthew frowned, and muttered, voice barely above a whisper, "It's not his fault, Alfred."

"Like hell it isn't."

His words were much more stern and sure than he himself felt.

_Did _he blame the German for his predicament?

The rational half of him said 'no', that it wasn't _his _fault he had had the misfortune to be born a German, or that his country was just..._evil_. No one could decide where and to whom they were born, could they? And that was nobody's fault. Not even his.

But the selfish half of him said 'yes', because it was his fault for coming _here_, of all places, and by God, if there was something that he was good at, it was blaming other people for his problems. And the German was the best culprit of them all, because hadn't his father told him so many times that everything bad in the world came (one way or another) from the Germans?

Maybe it wasn't fair to the German, but it wasn't fair to _him _either. So why should _he_ take all of the blame?

It was easier to blame others. Didn't feel as bad.

It was even worse now, because he had _protected_ the German that he sought to avoid. He had stepped into the middle of a volatile situation, for _him_? And he kept telling himself that if he had just been paying attention that he would have never leapt in there like that, just for _him_, but...

Another part of him (that annoying rational half again, always bringing him down) said that he would have done everything exactly the same. Someone had needed help, and if he had realized at the time that it had been that bright-eyed German, he _still_ would have taken the gun from that other man's hand, because it was the right thing to do.

And _that_ thought frightened him more than anything, because he should not have been thinking of right and wrong when it came to Germans, he knew, but it was so hard.

Always after him.

That's why his old man beat his ass.

And yet...

How strange. When he had stood there frozen in the street, in that awful moment of timelessness, and the German had met his eyes, he had not felt that hate that he had expected.

His father had described so often looking into a German's eyes, from across the barrels of rifles, and had told of such _hate_. He hadn't felt that. Maybe that was the worst part.

Then again, he had _never_ been alone like that with the German before, and it occurred to him now that he had not been thinking (at the time) that there was a German in front of him.

It had just been another young man. He did not look any different. His shoulder had not been any colder than Matthew's to the touch.

..._oh_, his head _hurt_.

Damned if he did, damned if he didn't.

Not fair. He didn't want to _hurt_ anyone.

But he didn't want to let go of the last strands of admiration that he had for his father.

He shouldn't have had to choose between them.

Matthew should have understood _better_ how he felt, even if Alfred couldn't articulate it, and he should have shown a little empathy. But he only ever looked so disappointed.

He hated that look.

"What do you want me to do?" he finally asked, over the tense silence, and Matthew, after a second, only shook his head.

Exasperated.

And that wasn't fair, either.

What could he do? What did he do? He didn't know what to _do_.

"Alfred, I know he's your dad and all, but I know that you don't really believe everything he's _told_ you. I mean, you don't think like that do you?"

Alfred sat still, and didn't answer.

Honestly? He didn't know what he thought, except perhaps that he had liked life much better when things had been simpler.

Matthew's brow just fell lower and lower.

"I wish you'd stand up to him..."

Ha!

Easier said than done, and what did Matthew know about it anyway?

"Oh, like _you _do?" was his callous retort, and Matthew lowered his eyes to the table.

Maybe _that_ wasn't fair _either_, because it was not Matthew's job to stand up to his father, but he could not help but feel satisfied at Matthew's hurt look.

He just wanted somebody to _understand_. He could not handle all of this alone.

He wanted to be confident in himself again. Was that so much to ask?

He needed reassurance in himself, because oh, he was sick of feeling so guilty all the time. He was sick of hearing old screams in his ears when he was trying to sleep.

"But, hey," he finally said, as he leaned forward and tried to get Matthew's attention, "What's it matter, huh? I'm still _me_, you know? _You_ know I'm a good guy, right?"

He expected a quick, 'Of course!'

But there was only a frightening silence. Matthew's mouth opened, and nothing came out.

"Right?"

Matthew hesitated, for the second time, and Alfred's heart sank into his stomach when the man he called 'best friend' looked around evasively, and then whispered, almost guiltily, "I think you _could_ be."

Hurt.

Matthew should have _understood_.

Stunned into immobility, he could not even look up when Matthew stood up, tossing money down on the table and walking out as quick as he could, throwing only a quick 'goodbye' over his shoulder as he went.

Alone and feeling for all the world as though he were about to burst into tears, Alfred leaned back, and buried his face his hands.

He could not stand it. He could not stand being a disappointment. Not to Matthew. Not to anyone.

His old man had been his _hero_.

Why couldn't Matthew understand how _hard_ that illusion was to let go of? His father was really all he'd ever known.

Losing track of time and place in a fog of frustration and helplessness, he was barely aware that he had ambled out of the diner, hands tucked in his pockets and walking so slowly that the elderly women overtook him, staring off into space.

What was he supposed to do?

He could not please his father. He could not please Matthew.

And as long as he was loyal to one, the other would be resentful. And that was just _them_! Toss the German in, and everything only got worse.

His chest ached all the time, with an odd heaviness that constricted his lungs.

Everyone expected so much of him, and such different things.

He walked on.

Blocks passed.

Maybe...

Maybe he spent so much time worrying about what _they_ wanted, that perhaps he did not take enough time to think about what _he_ wanted.

If only he could get away. Go somewhere.

Wait.

No, if only the _German_ would go away.

Pack up and leave, and make Alfred's life so much easier.

Yeah right. That stubborn bastard? No way.

How could he possibly convince him to get out of town? If five years of merciless beatings had not run him off, then nothing would.

hHw could he even _ask_ him? Show up at his doorstep and knock and say, 'Hey, if I buy you a train ticket will you leave?', or leave a note at his door? Pay him? Beg?

What did he have to do to get rid of him?

Because he was so sick of being beaten. More than that, he was sick of _beating_. He did not enjoy it, and every time he did it he felt further and further away from himself.

Was that really who he was?

He didn't want to hurt anyone.

If he were braver, perhaps, he would pack up his bags and move in with Francis. At least there he could be himself.

He walked on, lost in his thoughts, and maybe heaven was smiling on him because an opportunity presented itself in a strange way; ahead of him he could hear familiar commotion (he knew those voices and those giggles—what miserable _friends_!) and he just _knew_ that the German could not be far, and was surely being tormented.

Shouts in the street. Jeers and taunts.

And even though some part of him wanted to turn tail and go in the opposite direction, here was possibly the answer to his problem. This could prove an opportunity to get in his two cents.

If he could get the pale-haired German alone...

He could try to force him out. Good riddance.

Right?

Right.

He perked up his eyes and ears and quickened his pace, scouring the alleys as he tried to pinpoint the ruckus, and sure enough, around the corner and tucked back into a dirty crevasse, there they all were.

As expected.

His 'friends' and the German, clashing as they so frequently did, but this time the dog was there too, barking and snarling, held at bay only by a firm grip on its collar.

But not by its owner.

The wind picked up a little.

The German's chin was as high in the air as it ever was.

Alfred leapt into action.

"Hey guys!"

They all turned to look, and for a moment, he found his foot freezing up in the air.

...he didn't _want_ to jump into the middle of this fray.

It was necessary.

The last thing he ever wanted was to see this man again.

Instantly, the German's cool eyes fell onto his own, and he found himself stuck under the gaze that had so often haunted him.

Damn.

He hesitated.

But it was far too late to second-guess; he'd already drawn attention to himself.

"Hey, Jones! Long time no see!"

"Wonderin' when you'd come around!"

Too late.

He pushed forward, assuming his role as alpha. Even if he didn't feel much like a leader.

When he fell into the middle of them, they reached out to punch his arm with eager friendliness, and he waved off their curious questions about his eye with a breezy hand.

They thought that being beat by his old man made him all the cooler, and that was fine, as long as he had clout.

Whatever worked.

But the German, as usual, did not show him any admiration, staring at him silently with a furrowed brow and a clenched jaw.

A fuzzy memory of standing before this man, his hand upon his shoulder. It had only been a few days. Felt like forever.

Such a strange moment.

This was how they were used to standing in front of each other.

"Joinin' us, Jones?" one of them asked, and he tried to appear braver than he really felt by stepping forward and breaking their grip on the German, grabbing up his arm with an iron grip.

"Get lost," he said to them, and they fell back in awe when he added, "I've got a date with this one."

He pointed to his eye, and they understood.

Retribution.

So easy.

"Tear him up," they chortled, and he looked around.

At the end of the alley was the busted backdoor to an abandoned building, once sealed up but now free to enter by years of carelessness. Dark. Dusty. Isolated.

That was his spot.

He could get the German in there, pretend like he was beating the holy hell out of him, and all the while he was really trying to lay down a different law...

Get outta town.

Beside of him, the German was starting to struggle against him, almost breaking free at one point, and Alfred decided that time was a factor. Tightening his grip, he started tugging the blond back towards the end of the alley, and was met with surprisingly little resistance.

He'd expected a fight. There was none.

The German hated _him_ more than any of the others. He could see it, just in his eyes.

When the door was close, the German suddenly dug his heels into the ground, grinding them to a halt. When Alfred looked back in agitation, he could see that the German had turned back to stare at his dog.

Oh, right.

Dumb dog.

A whine from the canine made him pause too, and, as an afterthought, he yelled over his shoulder, as he resumed dragged the blond into the dusty building, "Don't touch that dog!"

They shrugged, and stared after him, one of them holding the dog's collar high up in his hand to prevent it from whirling around and biting. Not so friendly anymore. It struggled against them, to no avail, but they didn't seem to be that interested in it, and Alfred was confident that no harm would come to it. It was that confidence that led him to shove the German out into the middle of the building, not as hard as he could but enough to state his seriousness.

The German stumbled and fell onto the concrete floor, and Alfred pulled him up to his feet by his collar and slammed him back into the wall.

This was time for negotiation. Not pity.

Anyway, the German would have just brushed it off, like he did everything else.

They stood there, Alfred's hands entangled in the fabric of the German's thin shirt.

A little too thin for the chilly fall air. Cold must not have bothered him.

The German only stood there, pressed back into the wall, and didn't say a word. But his look clearly spoke his displeasure.

Time to get to it.

He braced his feet, and found his voice.

"Don't come here anymore," were his first words, and for a moment the German only gawked at him, in what could have been disbelief.

Well, that didn't surprise him either.

They'd never _spoken_. Not like this.

"We gotta do somethin' about this, don't we? I'm sick of it, you're sick of it. So. Let's figure somethin' out, alright? Just don't come on this side of town anymore. You go on the other side of town, we stay on this side of town. Sound good?"

He had been sure that there would have been an immediate agreement to this suggestion—for God's sake why _not_?—but the German did not say a word, staring at him so intensely that he was certain that if looks could kill, he would have long since been dead.

A little unnerving.

He hated it when the German stared at him. Just like back then.

"Are you hearin' me or what? Are you gonna stay away?"

A silence.

And then, amazing, unbelievably, _foolishly_, the German had the _nerve_ to shake his head.

He shook his head.

_What_?

What part of this was he not understanding?

"_Listen_," he hissed, and now he pressed the stubborn son of a bitch back into the wall as hard as he could, "Don't come around here anymore! Anything you need you can get out on _your _half of town. You can go to Bryant park instead of Central. Take the other streets. I don't wanna see you around here again! DO you get it or what? What's hard about this, huh? Make it easier on the both of us!"

He expected a nod of submission, a nasty retort, or even a struggle against him, but the German only continued to stare at him silently through eyes so narrow they were barely slits, and he felt his aggravation giving way to something more like anxiety (a worse feeling) as he was stared down by those icy eyes that always seemed to get the better of him.

Every time.

But still, he kept on his mask of arrogant dominance, and gave the German a good, firm shake.

"Get it? From now on, this is _my_ half of town, alright? Go somewhere else!"

Another nerve-wracking moment of unbreakable silence, and then the German snorted, and finally spoke.

He spoke.

Alfred almost couldn't believe it. His voice was so deep and low that Alfred struggled to hear it over the ruckus of the streets outside.

A burst of thunder.

"_Your _half? You really think you own everything, don't you? How is this _your_ half? Where should I go to work? Where should I go to pay my bills? Where should I go if I get sick?"

Rarely had he heard the German speak, and never this much.

Another first.

They'd never spoken directly.

His accent was strong, not completely incomprehensible, and Alfred could not help but feel that if he had been speaking to a friend the accented notes would have been rather charming. But it was somewhat intimidating now, as deep as his voice was, and his eyes were defiant, even in his position of being underneath, and Alfred could feel himself starting to shift awkwardly under his burning gaze.

Maybe the German really was made of ice.

"I don't _care_ where you gotta go! I _don't_! I'm sick of getting into trouble because of you!" He spat the words more than spoke them, and gave the German another fierce shake to back up his anger. "I'm sick of it! If you would just _go away _things would be easier for the both of us! Just—just go _away_!"

It was selfish, and unreasonable, and _childish_, but oh, _God_, if the dumb son of a bitch would just move away or stay on the other side of town, everything would be so much _better_.

Didn't anyone in this entire fuckin' _world_ understand him?

"Go away. Don't come back here."

But the German only scoffed, then, and whispered, voice thin with veiled hatred, "Where should I go? Where do you want me to go? Will you put up the money for me to move? Would you find me a new job? I won't go _anywhere_. I run from nothing. _I'm_ not a_ coward_."

The word 'coward' was strange for two reasons :

Firstly, the way the German pronounced it. It was very close to being completely incomprehensible, and it had taken Alfred's mind a moment to figure out what he was saying. Like he had seen the word written, but never pronounced.

Secondly, strange because the German was implying that _he_ was a coward.

And that _hurt_. Even if it was true.

No one had ever called him that. Not ever. He hated that word, more than any other.

Coward.

Maybe because being a coward was his worst fear. One that he felt came true far too often.

He was a coward.

But it hurt all the same to hear it, and even more to admit it.

With intent, he released the German's collar, and watched as he collapsed down against the wall in obvious exhaustion, coming to rest on the sides of his legs. Alfred only looked down at him, shaking his head as his chest burned, hands clenched at his sides.

Stupid, stubborn bastard.

It would have been easy, in that moment, to strike him for real.

He couldn't—his anger was slowly turning into apprehension and alarm, and it was with much less fervor that he hissed in exasperation, "_Look_, sometimes you gotta let go of pride! Think about it! What are we supposed to do, huh? My dad, oh damn, my dad _hates_ you! And what can I do? He's my _dad_! Christ, why don't you just go back to wherever you came from and stay with your own dad? Go _home_! Don't you have a father, or what?"

A terrible, heavy silence.

His words backfired. In the worst way.

The German stared up at him with a breathless smile that was almost a sneer, and after an eerie silence, he suddenly threw back his head and began to laugh.

He laughed.

A humorless, coarse, dry laugh that cracked with effort (he must not have laughed in _years_), and Alfred could only shudder as the German gasped for breath between his frightening cackles, and then, when he gathered him, he started to speak.

Alfred wished he hadn't.

His words, somehow, were worse than his despondent laughter.

"_My _father?" came the gasp, as he pulled himself from his odd splayed position and up onto his knees, "My father. Yeah. That's right."

Alfred shifted his weight, anxiously, and his clenched fists fell lax in what was very close to being _fear_.

The German raised his head, then, catching Alfred's gaze in an instant, and finally he carried on and whispered, "I was left at an orphanage when I was five. I was adopted when I was seven. And the man that I called _father—_" he lifted himself up onto one knee, hands pressing into the concrete floor for support, and God almighty his look was _terrible_, "—was shot by an American at Normandy after he had already surrendered."

He clutched his shirt as he struggled for breath even as he said it, and Alfred's fists clenched back up again, more tightly than ever, so that the sudden tremor would not be noticeable.

Because_ his_ father had been at Normandy, too.

His father.

He tried to speak.

"He deserved it. He was shooting them up," was his lame, numb response, and the German's head snapped up, and he stared up at Alfred with possibly the most wrathful gaze that had ever been known to mankind.

He took a step back when the German spoke again, as though the venom in his words would be able to do him physical harm.

"Deserved it? _Deserved _it? He shot them because they were storming the beach! It was his _job_! But he obeyed the rules of war, and they didn't! He was _on _his knees with his _hands _in the _air _and they came up behind him and shot him in the back of the _head_!"

Rules of war.

Back of the head.

Men who had already surrendered, against the pride in their bodies.

Alfred barely realized when the German had pulled himself back upright after a great struggle, barely noticed that his eyes were filling with unshed tears, didn't hear his low mutters, because his mind was thinking of...

Oh, no.

Hadn't he brought a German soldier's helmet to school once, all those years ago? And wasn't there a bullet-hole in the back? And hadn't his father been at Normandy?

And, _oh God_, hadn't he been _so _proud of it?

What if—

He staggered back in horror, as the German before him tried to keep his balance back against the wall, and their eyes met, the ice-blue that was normally so cool now churning with a savage storm, and he was still speaking even now, but Alfred did not hear.

The German didn't have a father.

Only a faint whooshing in his ears.

Some other man's father had taken him away.

His hands trembled.

Because, oh God.

Oh God, oh God, oh Christ almighty what if it had been _his _father that had shot the _German's _father, oh _God_, he had been there and he had shot men who had surrendered, hadn't he, oh God, and he had bragged about it and he had never denied it and he had _shot _them—

Oh God.

He could not bear the thought. If they had shared such a terrible fate.

He could accept many things about his father's role in the war, many good things, and maybe he had once been _proud_ of his father's massacres of surrendered troops, but seeing it right now before him, a man his age whose father had knelt on the ground years ago, throwing his hands in the air and _hoping_ that his captors would be merciful because he had a little boy waiting at home...

Just like Alfred had waited.

But his father had come home. The German's had not.

It was too much.

What if his father had killed the German's? He'd die of shame.

His clenched fist flew up to his mouth, as the nausea rose up within him, and he was so frightened that he would vomit right there that he turned on his heel and ran out as quick as he could, and when he made it to the door, he did not stop for even a second until he had skidded out into the alleyway.

Sunlight. Wind.

His chest ached.

He didn't feel the pain in his leg anymore, and bolted out of the alley as fast as he could.

In his haste and distress, he did not notice that his friends had gone.

Everything seemed a little blurry.

Couldn't be. Couldn't be. No way. There was no way. What were the _chances_? It couldn't be.

He came out of the alley and leaned against a streetlamp for support, heaving deep breaths to settle his stomach as he waited for an opportunity to cross the street.

He felt sick.

Cars passed. People walked. No one spared him a glance.

Oh, he was gonna puke, he could _feel_ it, if the fuckin' light didn't hurry and _change_.

Finally, mercifully, it did, and he sprinted across, and for a moment, when his feet hit the pavement on the other side, he thought for sure that the worst was over—

But as he lifted his foot, a mere second from going into an all-out, marathon-worthy run, a terrible, high-pitched wail of despair from behind made him freeze in his tracks.

That sound.

Heartbreak.

Like back _then_.

As the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, he turned around (despite the voice in his head that urged him _not_ to, to just go on), and it was with another awful lurch of his stomach that he could see the German, still across the street, kneeling down in the alleyway.

What now?

It took a moment for him to understand what had happened, as the passing cars blocked his view.

They cleared suddenly, just for a second. A break in the sea. Only a second.

But it was enough, and he saw.

The German knelt on his knees in the dirty alley, and he was crying out and coughing as he tried to control his sobs, and in his arms he held his dog, and even from a distance Alfred could see the canine's head rolling this way and that with sickening limpness, its black fur matted and wet with what was undoubtedly blood, and he realized that he had made a horrible mistake in _trusting _them.

The German shook the dog, that _dumb_ dog, as if trying to wake him, his moaning and screeching muffled by the sounds of traffic.

Alfred could have died.

Then the cars melded back together and blocked his view again.

The horrid spell was broken, and he could only try to carry on, because, Christ he had to know!

He had to know.

Beyond all else, beyond that horrible scene, he had to know if his father had killed another father at Normandy.

As the German's anguished shriek played over and over again in his ears in a relentless loop, like another shriek from so long ago often did, he stumbled through the streets, and he was so distraught by the time he reached his own home that he did not even remember to crawl in through his window, and burst in straight through the front door.

His father was on the couch, and when he saw Alfred, he straightened up combatively.

"Boy! Where the hell do you think you've—"

"Dad!" he interrupted, so numb that he was beyond fear, "Dad, were you at Normandy?"

For a second, his father fell silent, and Alfred thought he would stand up and slap him, but then his stance relaxed and he smiled.

"Sure was!" he barked, always so eager to relive his war days. "101st Airborne! Dropped down into Vierville on Utah beach! Damn, was that a thrill!"

Alfred's heart raced.

His forehead broke out with a cold sweat.

Any minute now, his stomach would lose the battle with nausea.

"Dad, did you... Did you kill any Germans on the beach? After they surrendered?"

Such questions would have been absurd in a normal household, maybe. Here, it was nothing, and his father didn't even bat an eye.

He was silent for a moment in thought, and Alfred knew all of the color had drained from his face, but then the old man shook his head. "On the beach? Nah, we got there after the bunkers had already been taken. We didn't need to go on the beach. But once we got down farther into France, I—"

The rest of father's words were phased into white noise, and he could only lean back against the wall, and sigh in relief.

His hands shook. Oh, such relief.

His father had not been the one that had snuffed out the German's father.

_Oh_, thank God, thank _God_, he could not have taken that guilt.

He couldn't have.

He and the German were not tied together by their fathers. He could have fallen down onto the floor right there and burst into either tears or laughter, he didn't really know which, but his relief was short lived.

As usual.

His father suddenly broke through the mist and caught his attention by wrenching around on the couch, meeting his gaze with a self-satisfied smile, and he added, "But you should have seen him, Alfred!"

Him?

Him, who?

His father had been prattling. He had not been listening.

Something to be grateful for, perhaps.

His father raised his hands up into the air next to his head in mock-surrender, and said, in a thick, ugly German accent, "_Nein_! _Nein_! Don't shoot me! I haff vife und boy in house! Und ein dog too!"

A chill came over Alfred then, and he shuddered, because he did not need to ask what had become of the pleading German his father was imitating : he folded his hand into the shape of a gun, and said, simply, "Pow!"

Laughing, he turned back around, resuming his gaze on the television as though nothing had happened.

In his house, this was nothing.

Nothing.

Behind the couch and against the wall, Alfred watched his father, silently.

His mind wandered.

And in his head, he could see the streets of Germany, cobbled stone slick and wet, as the defeated troops that hadn't been captured returned home to their families, and he could also see, in the middle of the crowd, a small blond boy with ice-blue eyes waiting in the rain, looking back and forth for a soldier that would never return.

_Nein! Nein!_

Nothing.

His father may have felt _nothing_, but _he_ could feel something shifting within him, and as he watched his father, leaning into the sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table and laughing loudly as he watched the television, it was no longer with that desperate admiration and fearful awe that he had had not so long ago.

He only felt...

What _was _it he felt?

It was not love. His father knew no love.

It was not affection. His father knew no kindness.

It was not respect. And his father knew no _remorse_.

What did he feel?

_You should have seen him!_

Hate.

It was hate.

His entire life his father had taught him only to _hate_.

It had worked.

Because oh, he _hated _his father. And he hated himself.

Something had to change.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He didn't want _nothing_. He wanted something. He wanted more than this. There had to have been more to life than just _hate_.

So much hate. His own was no longer needed.

He would not do this anymore.

He wouldn't.

He _couldn't_.

It hurt.

He was so tired of hating. He couldn't do it like his father could. He couldn't feel just _nothing_.

He wanted more.


	6. Valse Lente

**Chapter 6**

**Valse Lente**

Alfred had decided when he was twelve that he never wanted kids.

He remembered with excruciating clarity the event that had lead him to that conclusion :

A sunny school day in April. He had sat in class with all the other children, and while they were smiling and chattering, he had stayed still and silent, eyes settled firmly on his desk. It had been 'bring-your-father-to-school' day, and all of the others were excited because their fathers were out in the hall, standing patiently and waiting for the teacher to stick her head out of the door and call their names. He had been excited too, at first, the week before when the announcement had been made. He had longed to show off his war-hero father, and get respect from the others, but when he had told his father about it, all he had gotten was a snappy, 'I ain't goin' to no damn school'.

He had tried the entire week, over and over again, and every time he asked his father would say 'no'. But still he tried, because oh, he had not wanted to be the only one there without a father, but his last request had ended with a familiar old cuff to the ear. He did not ask again, and when he came into the class, he had whispered into his teacher's ear to _please_ not call his name, because his father wasn't there.

Her look of pity had hurt him as much as his father's fist ever could.

And so, as he had sat there, feeling left out and unloved, he had decided that he would never have children, because if he did then he would be destined to end up disappointing and shaming them as his father so often disappointed and shamed him.

His father had never wanted to spend time with him when he was a child.

Had never sought him out.

So why now, all of a sudden, was his father acting so strange?

Why now?

It had been a week since his horrible brush with near psychological catastrophe, and he had spent every minute of every day anywhere but in his house. He came home, in fact, only to sleep, and did not acknowledge his father with even a hello if he was still awake when he arrived.

He couldn't.

The burning of hate was still far too strong. A bitter taste in the back of his throat. He ignored his father, as easily as if he lived in the house by himself.

No 'good morning'. No 'see ya later'. No 'goodnight'.

It was just fine with him, this silence and coldness, but now his father was suddenly waiting up later and later, and when Alfred would finally come home he would leap to his feet and say, 'Hi.'

When Alfred only walked straight to his room without a word, he could swear that he saw something that almost looked like hurt in his father's eyes.

And maybe it was wrong, but God, it felt _great _to hurt him, even a little. And when his father had knocked on his door one night, he had quickly barked, 'Go away.' He did, and the next morning when Alfred awoke, his father had been waiting in the kitchen to see him off to work.

If he had to put his father completely in the dark just to get the simplest of fatherly reactions from him, then so be it, but he did not plan on resuming his life in that mechanical routine that it had been before.

He did not feel pity for his father, who was now suddenly seeking him out only because _he _was not, and if he was just scared of being left all alone as the hand of time crept upon him (already fifty and mostly grey-haired) then that was his own goddamn fault for having never been a real father in the first place.

Despite his harsh thoughts, his heart was not so hardened, and it was only because his father had raised him alone that he continued to live with him now.

But he would not spend time with him, and now, on his day off and without Matthew and Francis, he walked the city streets alone. While normally he could not stand being alone, this time it was a blessing, because he felt like he finally had room to think.

A blessing?

Maybe a curse. Because he had time to think, alright, but what he thought about only made him feel sick to his stomach, and he looked back on everything he had ever done with his father's hand on his arm. He remembered every word, every action, every second of hate-filled stupidity, and oh God, if he could go back in time to the day of _that incident_, he would have leapt forward and covered the old man's body with his own, because he had been strong enough to endure the fierce beating that had extinguished the frail senior...

"Hey, where ya goin'?"

He could not stand the regret.

"You listenin'?"

He could not stand the shame.

"Jones!"

He started when someone reached out and poked a finger into his back, and when he came out of his head and back down into reality, he turned around, and felt a wave of exasperation wash over him when he saw his friends behind him. Didn't they have better things to do?

"What do you guys want?" he grumbled, and they followed him faithfully from behind, ignoring his foul mood with smiles.

"We've been talkin' to you for about five minutes. You're really out of it today!"

Maybe he was, and he finally stopped walking and leaned back against a building, not necessarily wanting to spend time with them, but then again, he did not want to think about _that incident _anymore either. They fell in beside him on either side, and together they watched the cars pass by on the street, and when they started speaking mindlessly, Alfred sent each of them in turn a cold glare.

He was _so_ upset at them for ignoring his order so brazenly. No words.

But then again, he had been foolish to believe they would not.

They looked surprised at his attitude, and after a suffocating silence he finally said, voice clipped, "I told you not to touch that dog."

For a moment they were still, and then one of them cried, "The fucker _bit _me!" and sure enough, when Alfred lowered his eyes, he could see the other's hand wrapped firmly in a bandage through which blood had leaked.

Boo-fuckin'-hoo.

"Well," he spat unsympathetically, crossing his arms above his chest, "You shouldn't have put your goddamn hand near its mouth, should you?"

"Calm down, Jones," he grunted, voice sounding somewhat nervous, "Christ, it was just a dog."

"I _like _dogs."

They did not respond, but he could feel them looking at each other and biting their tongues, and he was glad that they respected him, because otherwise they probably would have laughed him right out of their gang for being so soppy.

Actually, he thought with a pang, that sounded pretty damn good right about now, and he could have gladly walked away and never looked back.

He rested his head against the wall as they lit up their cigarettes, wrinkling his nose as the foul smoke flew up in his face, and he didn't know _why _he stood there with them, or why he didn't just leave of his own accord.

The minutes passed.

Why he didn't just tell them what he _really _thought of them.

That they were senseless cowards and miserable failures, little better than thugs, feeding off of each others' hatred until they had destroyed everything, and that he _hated_ them more than he could ever possibly express.

"Hey, look who it is."

He opened his eyes, and saw one of them inclining his head to the other side of the street, and Alfred looked. He had a feeling of what he would see, and was correct.

Carrying bags so full of groceries that they threatened to burst, struggling to keep his eyes above them, walking evenly and steadily, was the German.

No longer feeling that overwhelming desire to flee, Alfred could only follow him with his eyes, and scoff, because never before had the German come all the way over on this side just to buy groceries, and he suspected that it was just an act of spite. Defiance, no matter how subtle, and he couldn't help but shake his head.

Stubborn bastard.

"Wanna go after him?" one of them asked, and he shrugged either shoulder lazily, feeling suddenly confident and cool without knowing why.

"I don't feel like it," he drawled, leaning back into the side of the building, and even though it burned him a bit that the German had defied him so brazenly, he did not have the heart nor the will to hold it against him, and he smiled in relief when the others nodded their agreement.

"Yeah, me either."

He dared himself to glance over at his least favorite member of the group, the most violent and vociferous, Ryan Jr., that little snitch who told his father _everything_, but even he only leaned back against the wall, cigarette in mouth and looking completely content to stay where he was.

Alfred turned his eyes back to the German, and watched.

He hadn't ever been able to just stand there and _watch_ him before, and he took in his appearance; tall, lean and well-built, he stood out in the drab, wintry city, as his platinum hair caught the pale sunlight and gleamed, very white skin standing in stark contrast to his black clothing, eyes bluer than the sky and possibly as endless. Perfect posture, strong shoulders, chiseled jaw and nose.

Alfred's first thought was that, if his father had not told him so and if he had never heard him speak, he would never have known that he was a German. He would have thought, perhaps, that he was just a country boy, maybe born on a farm, coming into the city for errands.

His fellow countryman.

...did it really matter so much, where he had been born?

He wasn't American. So what? He was a German.

Alfred was American. So what? He wasn't a German.

Did that mean they could never see each other as equals? Could they never be friends?

Suddenly, the German looked over his shoulder, as though sensing he was there, and their eyes locked.

He was too far away to read the gaze, and maybe that was for the best, because after the travesty of their last meeting, he could not imagine that it was anything less than absolute hatred. But how could he have known that they would have the misfortune to clash so many times?

All he had, it seemed, was misfortune.

But maybe there was someone else on this planet that had almost the same miserable kind of luck that he did, and it was perhaps a huge cosmic joke that caused one of the German's bags to rip open, and spill its contents all over the sidewalk.

He turned, and for a moment he stared down at the rolling potatoes and apples, standing completely still as though he, too, could not believe his luck, and his perfect posture slumped.

Maybe it was Alfred's presence that brought this misfortune upon him.

Or maybe their stars were crossed somewhere up above.

Beside him, his friends giggled half-heartedly, too lethargic and mellow to do much else, but he felt his heart sinking slowly into his stomach.

Then the German knelt down on the dirty sidewalk, grabbing up what he could without spilling anything else, and the look on his face made Alfred want to just...

Help.

Just to do something. Anything.

He did not know _why _he did it. He would never have done it if he had been thinking rationally. Not in front of _them_.

But, oh God... Seeing that look of complete exhaustion and frustration and a horrifying hopelessness on the German's face, as if he were _so _close to just giving _up_, and knowing that it was his _fault_, he could not help himself.

Hands clammy and heart racing, he reached out and snatched the cigarette out of Ryan's mouth, bringing it up to his lips and inhaling as deeply as he could, and even though it burned his lungs and made him cough uncontrollably, it gave him the rush of bravery that he needed, and he pushed off the wall and walked across the street.

Everything went quiet.

He could feel blood hammering in his head.

He could hear his father's voice in his ears, mocking that soldier.

Standing tall and strong, he reached the other side, and when the German looked up and saw him coming, he froze. Alfred knelt down in front of him, grabbing an apple, and when their eyes met, there was none of that electric atmosphere that usually surrounded them.

Just a dull, dreamy fog.

It was not a position he had ever thought he would occupy, on one knee in front of the man that was supposed to be his worst enemy, helping him gather escaping produce, but here he was. And the strangest part of it all was that it felt a hell of a lot better to be at eye level with the German than it did to stand above him.

He opened his mouth, and whispered, weakly, "Hey," and the sound of his voice brought the German out of his daze. Alfred expected him to narrow his eyes and curse him (as he deserved) but...

He only stared at him, and then he looked across the street, where Alfred's friends were watching with breathless smiles, and then Alfred glimpsed something horrible in those blue eyes; expectancy. And he realized, with an awful rise of guilt, that he had misread the meaning of the German's trip into town. He had thought it was proud defiance.

It was not, and when the German looked once again over to his friends, this time with a high brow and the faintest ghost of a smile, he understood. He had come here _hoping_ to find them! He had come here hoping to run into them like this on the street, and oh, God, Alfred knew why.

He wanted them to beat him. He wanted them to _kill_ him.

He _had_ given up. He had been pushed too far.

And it was Alfred's fault.

It was his fault.

Maybe it had been the loss of his dog. Maybe it had been having to remember his slain father. Or maybe it had just been one blow too many, and now he was kneeling before Alfred, his loose stance all but an invitation, and Alfred wanted nothing more than to lay his forehead on the sidewalk and cry, because he was _so_ ashamed.

But instead, he tried in vain to smile, pale and nauseas, and shook his head, once.

He would not call on the dogs. Never again.

The German understood, and it was with a face full of disappointment that he abandoned the fallen groceries and pulled himself to his feet with dizzying fluidness, stalking off without another glance behind.

Alfred's heart sank from his stomach down into his feet.

"Hey!" he cried, and he stumbled over his own feet as he scrambled to gather the potatoes that were still rolling this way and that, "Wait!"

The blond did not wait, instead speeding his pace, and then Alfred's peers on the other side of the street burst into helpless giggles, as _he_, Alfred, prince of the street, gathered up dirty vegetables and used his expensive leather jacket as a makeshift bag. Christ, they sounded like hyenas, and he could not help but look over at them, as they struggled to contain themselves.

"L-look at _Jones_," Ryan wheezed, and it was with a cold hatred within that he shot them a wide, ridiculous grin, and they burst into tears. They assumed, after all, that he was just teasing the German.

The calm before the storm.

But his smile was only an illusion; he had never been more serious about anything in his life, oh God his head was pounding he was so serious, and when he had gathered up the very last of the fleeing produce, he turned tail and jogged off after the long-gone German, and as he ran he did not see any of the people passing him by; he saw only his father's face, and how he had been so close to _becoming_ him, but the German's downfall had been _his_ uprising, and as he shoved through the crowd he no longer felt his father's presence. Only his own, and it felt so _good _to be defiant, to disobey the old son of a bitch even in such a small way as picking up potatoes, and when he reached the house that he knew was the German's, he held his jacket close and rang the doorbell.

Nothing stirred.

"Hey."

He knocked.

"You there?"

He waited patiently, but no one answered. Honestly, he had not really expected him to.

But he was not deterred (he was too sick with adrenaline to be deterred!) and he set the produce down on the steps gently, and then he knocked again, and again, and when there was still no response, he leaned against the door and said, loudly, "I left your stuff on the step, okay?"

Silence.

It occurred to him the near absurdity of the situation; standing on the doorstep of a house in the neighborhood that he avoided so desperately, knocking on the door of the man that he had been raised to hate.

If anyone had told him even a month before that he would be standing here, he would have laughed in their face.

And yet...

Here he stood.

He felt almost stupid.

If the German had humored him and opened the door, what would he have said?

'Sorry about your dog?'

He'd get punched in the face.

Out of place and awkward and feeling that he had overstayed his welcome, he wrapped it up. "I'm gonna go," he said, more gently. "Don't forget your stuff. ...alright?"

He lingered for a second, and then turned and walked off, giving the German his space for now, and as he went he could swear that he saw the flutter of a curtain, a shadow in the window. And, as he ambled through the streets, hands in his pockets, he felt a little better.

For the time in years, he felt _better_.

He felt brave and even a little hopeful, because he had done something good for once, and he had done it knowing that his father would beat his ass if ever he found out. And he hadn't cared. He hadn't cared. He had done something on his own, thinking for himself, without feeling that horrible need to conform.

He felt strangely liberated.

He wanted that feeling again, and he knew what he could do to get it, and when he returned home that night, it was with a plan of action, and a bottle of whiskey.

His father had been waiting on the couch, and when Alfred came through the door and smiled and held the bottle up high, his eyes lit up.

Maybe he really did love his son, somewhere deep down, or maybe he was just scared of being abandoned, but when Alfred proposed a night of friendly father/son drinking, he was more than willing.

It was only a farce.

The idea in his head was so appealing that he could barely control his excitement when he slammed the glasses down on the table and uncapped the whiskey.

Alfred took the first shot, and watched as his father put two back with a wince, no stranger to heavy drinking. He did not lower his gaze when his father met his eyes, and maybe it was this sudden air of confidence that made his father reach out and slap his back with camaraderie. Alfred smiled, even though his stomach twisted with dislike that bordered on hatred.

But it was off to an easy start, his father never refusing a drink, and the feeling of being in control of the situation for once was exhilarating, and Alfred drank a second. It was bitter and warm, and he felt braver with every second.

His father took one more, and then leaned back, face red as he was reaching a limit.

Feeling rather cunning, Alfred pushed his glasses up his nose and drawled, "You call that drinkin'?"

A challenge.

His father took the bait.

"Boy, you don't know who you're talkin' to," was the coarse reply, and it was with a look of determination that he drank three more. He did not seem to notice that Alfred had stopped after the second.

An hour later, the bottle was swimming with only a third of its original contents, and his father was swimming too, and Alfred watched his swaying father with an arched brow of interest. His warmth had long since faded.

He waited.

The clock ticked away.

"Alfred," his old man suddenly slurred, as his face relaxed with sleep, "Did I ever tell you...that you got your mama's eyes?" He smiled, blearily, and then with a great sigh he passed out on the couch in a drunken stupor.

It was a sign of his deteriorating affection for his father that Alfred did not feel moved by his earnest words, because Francis had told him that many times, and it made him _sick _that his father had to be under the table smashed before he could even speak kindly to his own son.

He had yearned his whole life to be spoken gently to by his father.

To be told, 'I love you, son'.

It had never happened, and it was too late now.

He no longer cared.

As he lay there motionless, Alfred inhaled a great breath and then did what he had been planning to do the entire night. Pulling on his boots, and then his jacket, he opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a small brass key. Gripping it firmly in his hand, he crept up the stairs and pushed open the door to his father's room.

Off in the corner was a locked chest. He knelt before it, and with the key removed the lock. When he opened it, he looked down for a moment with a terrible loathing, at both his father and himself. It was a war chest, of sorts, and in it lay all of the things his father cherished from the days of his service.

The old revolver, his hat, a Nazi flag taken from the Reichstag in Germany in the days of denazification, boots, old maps, and underneath it all was the bloodied soldier's helmet.

Reaching down with gentle hands, he took up the helmet and pulled it out.

As he stared at it up and down, the city lights streaming through the hole in the back, he tried to remember what he had ever been thinking when he had brought it to school. Had he been stupid? Or just that ignorant? He felt only a strange sadness now, and as he tucked the helmet under his arm, locked the chest and walked out, he tried to put a face to it.

He could not, and only saw the face of the blue-eyed German that always looked so proud.

As he passed silently towards the front door, he glanced over at the couch to be sure that his father was still sleeping. He was, and oh, God help him...

He should have just put a gun to the back of his father's head, and made him beg, like he had made the German soldiers beg, as they had knelt in the mud and cried out to their distant wives...

He pushed the terrible thought away, because he hated his father, but he was still obligated to love him too, and he stepped out into the cold night air with determination.

He knew exactly where he was going.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

And, for once, he was proud of it.

The journey to Central park was not long, and as he walked around the endless paths, feet brushing through dead leaves and breath visible in the air, he was seeking out the most secluded place, and the most peaceful.

He walked for an hour before he found it, a rarely used trail deep in the center, and he left the path and strayed out into the trees. He searched with his feet for soft earth, and when he found it he fell to his knees. Grabbing up a branch, he stabbed it into the ground, and began to dig.

With every scatter of soil onto the leaves, his heart felt lighter, and when he had a hole before him that was big enough, he took up the helmet in his dirty hands, and set it down inside.

He looked down at it in a moment of humbleness, hoping that one day this might actually mean something to someone, and as he shoved the earth back on top, he also hoped that maybe a woman and son, two old parents in Germany would wake up in the morning, and feel a little more at peace.

When the hole was covered, he scattered it with leaves, and pulled himself to feet, admiring his work. Because, _oh_, the last remnant of that soldier deserved to be in the quiet ground and not locked away in his father's chest of hate...

Like he himself had been.

He did not leave the park at first, and settled himself on a bench that overlooked the site.

It wasn't much. It wasn't a proper end, by any means.

But it was all he could do.

He sat there, on the bench, watching the distant spot with a satisfied rush, that dirty patch of park ground that had suddenly become hallow, and with a smile he leaned back, and looked up at the sky.

He hoped that with this act, he had escaped forever his father's world.

At the break of dawn, he left the park and returned home, and he made a silent oath to himself that he would _never _let anyone think for him again. He had been so blinded by his father's prejudices that he had never realized that he had brought another human being down so low... Another _human being_, not a German, and if the German gave up and died, then he would have committed murder, like his father had.

_Thou shalt not kill._

If he ever hated anyone again, it would be because of their actions.

Not their ethnicity.

The soldier had been laid to rest.

And now, he would lay to rest the animosity between him and the pale-haired German.

One way or another.


	7. Velvet Waltz

**Chapter 7**

**Velvet Waltz**

The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.

That was what his mother had told him when he was young, over and over again, _so _many times, as the days had grown ever colder and darker, and so had his mother's spirit. It was hard, she had said, but as long as Ludwig never _forgot _them...

As long he never forgot.

Then they weren't _really _dead. Not really.

Days.

He had lain in bed for _days_, and so he was now, on his side as he watched the morning sunlight struggling to come in through the closed curtains, and as he stared blankly ahead at the wall, he could swear that sometimes he heard her voice, like it was yesterday, very soft and calm and always so soothing.

He had tried so hard to remember them, because she had told him to, and he had believed her. He had _believed _that if he could remember every word, every act, every step that his father and his brother had taken, then they would never really die.

Maybe he would even wake up one day, and they would be there, just like they always had been before.

But they never were.

The beds were as empty when he awoke as they had been when he had gone to sleep.

And his mother had never believed it either, had she, but she kept saying it anyway. Until the end.

She had lived too much in her memories. Maybe the memories of the dead had consumed her life. Maybe she had lived so much in her memories that she had just _forgotten _that she still _had _a son, alive and breathing and right next to her, who still held her hand with warmth, who still called her mother and depended on her.

He hadn't forgotten _her_.

The wall was blank.

He had no photos. No posters. Only cream-colored paint and bland draperies.

The hours passed by in a dull haze. His head _hurt _all the time. He went to work, but his hands moved slowly and clumsily. He just wanted to lie in bed and be left alone.

Alone. She had left him alone.

He spent much of the day sleeping, and the only time he even bothered to pull himself to his feet and stand up was when...

A knock on his bedroom door. A pause, and then a soft, hesitant whisper, "Ludwig?"

He always hoped that maybe...

Maybe.

He did not respond immediately, lethargic and without motivation, and then the door clicked gently open. There was another whisper, this time clearer and maybe more anxious, "Hey. Ludwig? Are you okay?"

He wasn't okay, in the least bit, but he still looked over his shoulder dutifully nonetheless and said, lowly, "Sure."

Because it wasn't a ghost in the doorway; it was just Antonio, and he leaned against the frame, brow low and eyes worried, and in his hand he held a mug of coffee. His lips were pursed in apprehension, and the circles under his eyes were indicators of the stressed atmosphere in which he had been living. He took a step forward, and tried to smile, but it came off as weak and false, and he finally managed, "I brought you some coffee." When there was only silence, he took another step, and added, "You haven't been eating..."

"I haven't been hungry."

The thought of eating had not crossed his mind.

He just felt sick.

"Oh."

A silence, and then Antonio's voice was strained and thin as he pleaded, "Won't you come down? Just...for a little while? I'm worried for you."

Antonio, always so cheerful and optimistic, was worried.

It was his fault.

Tossing his legs over the edge of the bed, he pulled himself upright, and Antonio's face lit up with relief when he stood up. A moment of silence, as Antonio smiled at him, and finally he said, voice barely above a whisper, "I'm going to take a shower...and then I'll be down."

The smile on Antonio's face faltered and the worry was back, and he knew _why_, and maybe it was for good reason but he tried his best to smile anyway, if only to reassure Antonio that he would, indeed, be down later.

"Alright," Antonio finally conceded after a moment's pause, and he backed to the door. "Don't be long."

And then he was gone, and when dull thunks on the staircase told Ludwig that he was alone upstairs, he dragged himself to the bedroom door, walked through the frame, and passed like a phantom straight across the hall and before the bathroom door.

And for a moment, as he gripped the doorknob in his hand, he hesitated.

Sometimes...

He hated bathrooms.

Sometimes.

Maybe the memories of the dead could come back and haunt you.

Furrowing his brow and bracing his feet, he pushed the door open, stepped inside, and flipped on the light, keeping his eyes on the floor. The fluorescent bulb sputtered, on and off, and then finally came to life with that sick glow of radiation that unnerved him as much as the dark did.

He raised his eyes.

Red.

Something was dripping on the floor. The light was flickering.

Red.

The bathtub was full to the brim. The tile was wet.

Red.

Everything was red.

The air was metallic, and the water was opaque. His head began to pound, and there was a faint screeching in his ears.

Red.

He took a wobbly step forward, and he could swear, for a moment, that he saw something pale and unmoving just beneath the surface of that crimson water—

And then a sharp cry of, "Don't be long, remember!" broke through his static state, and he jumped, looking back at the door with slumped shoulders. He muttered some half-hearted response that was incomprehensible even to himself, and when he turned back around, the bathroom was white again.

The bathtub was empty. There was no water dripping. The light was not flickering; steady and bright.

White.

He stood still and straight in front of the door, gathering himself, and when he took a deep breath, the air was clear.

Sometimes.

He glided to the tub, and when he reached out and turned the water on, he thought to himself that maybe, sometimes, he let the memories of the dead consume his life just as much as his mother ever had.

He flipped the faucet over, and when the shower above roared to life, he shed his clothes and stepped in, and even though the water was much warmer now than it had been _then_, he still could not seem to pull himself away from his dark thoughts.

Everything had been dark lately. _Especially _his thoughts.

And that was why Antonio was so worried now, wasn't it?

He just couldn't ever seem to match Antonio's optimism. It was hard for him to see a curve or fork in the road and not worry, worry, _worry _that there was something terrible around the bend, something disappointing if he chose the wrong path.

Antonio hoped for the best. He only expected the worst.

The days now seemed as cold and dreary as they had that winter, and nothing here was turning out like it was supposed to, and everything was wrong, and oh, _God_, he could not bear any more losses. And it had only been three days since he had come into this same bathroom, and when he had stood before the mirror, watching his pale reflection with a foggy mind, he had held the razor in his hand, gripping it so tightly that it had cut into his finger. What he would have done with it he could not say, for Antonio had stumbled in by accident, and when he had seen the blood dripping down Ludwig's hand and into the sink, he had frozen up in his tracks, and Ludwig had never imagined that dreamy Antonio could ever look so frightened.

So _angry_, and he had stomped his foot and demanded to know what was going on, and Ludwig's lame response had been that he was changing a dull razorblade and had simply cut himself.

Maybe it was true—he wasn't thinking right, after all—but Antonio had plucked the razor from his fingers anyway and had said, sternly, 'I'll change it.'

And he had changed it, but he had not given it back. Not that day. Or the next.

...the water was cold.

A loud bang on the bathroom door drug him out of his reverie, and suddenly Antonio was shouting through the wood, "You have two minutes before I come in and get you!"

How long had he been here? He hadn't even washed his hair.

"Hey! You hear me? Ludwig?"

"I'm coming," he said, and his voice cracked, but Antonio stopped knocking all the same.

In a daze, he leaned down and turned off the water, pulling a towel off the nearby hook and throwing it around his waist. He stepped out, and then suddenly he was in front of the mirror again, and he was as pale as ever; as pale as his mother, as everyone had always told him.

That had been a lie; she hadn't been his real mother anyway.

Everyone lied.

He didn't recall exactly pulling on his clothes or walking out, or going downstairs, but he had, because suddenly he was in the kitchen, and Antonio was at his side, fretting over him and placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

"Here, look! I made you some breakfast. You need to eat something, just a little..."

He sat down heavily, and his eyes were on the corner of the kitchen floor, not on the table, and maybe Antonio had made the best breakfast known to mankind, but it would sit there untouched all the same.

The floor in the corner was empty. There used to be two bowls there.

There would probably still _be _two bowls there, except that Antonio had snatched them up and tucked them far under the cabinet below the sink, so that he would not come across them often or by accident. Maybe that was for the best. He had not yet passed from the stage of denial and into the stage of acceptance, lingering somewhere in between. He _knew _that there would no longer be a weight on the end of his bed, or a scratch at the door, or a lick on his hand while he laid on the couch, or a tilted head by the window, watching people pass, and yet somehow he found himself expecting them nonetheless.

He would no longer walk in the park, but sometimes he took up the leash in his hand anyway. But when he looked down at his side, there was no longer any collar to attach it to.

It was almost astonishing, how long two weeks could drag out when you were looking for something that just wouldn't come.

How everything could go downhill so quickly. How one day could complete a circle of merciless misfortune that he thought he had escaped.

But the first day hadn't even been the worst.

The first day.

As if Jones up in his face in the dusty gloom making a mockery of his brave father had not been enough. But to come out into the light and to see the only tie to his _home _that he had left lying there motionless in the dirty alley. To pick up his best friend in his arms and feel the sickening warmth of sticky blood, and no matter how hard he shook, to see no sign of life. To touch around here and there, and feel no heartbeat.

And then later, having to brace his knees as he lifted his limp dog up in his arms and carried him back home, for the last time.

The last time.

He remembered the first time he had carried that dog.

Springtime. Seventeen years old and completely alone, he had traveled so many hours from his home town all the way up to Hamburg, carrying everything he owned (which filled only a backpack), and when he had gotten off the train and set off down the streets, his passport in his back pocket and his money in the front, he had been so set on buying his ticket to freedom that he had barely even noticed the tiny ball of fluff that was nipping at his heels. Until, that was, it had clamped down on his pant leg and nearly sent him face-first into the pavement. Looking down over his shoulder, he had sent the black puppy a very stern look, and shook him off, shooing him away with his foot and telling him (although certainly he was not understood) to go off and find his owner. He had set off again, and yet the persistent canine had hounded him, so to speak, and after shaking him loose three more times, he began to realize that he would not escape.

But when he had reached down and grabbed up the floppy-eared puffball by the scruff of its neck, having every intention of shoving it into someone else's arms and telling them that they had just won themselves a free puppy, their eyes met, and he had foundered. He was alone, after all, and the damn dog had been alone too, and maybe that was why he had tucked it under his arm and carried it along to the ticket booth.

Before he purchased a ticket to New York, he had asked the teller, 'Can the dog come?'

The teller had looked down at the black fuzz with disinterest, and had said, monotonously, 'Sure, as long as you have vaccine papers. And a collar. And you gotta buy a ticket for it too.'

He had nearly set the puppy down right then and there for conveniences sake, but the damn thing had looked up at him and whined, and it was only because he was _so _lonely that he turned on his heel and walked off, searching the streets of Hamburg for a veterinarian who would give the dog his shot and papers, and a damn collar too.

Hours later, papers in hand, he returned to the booth, and bought his tickets.

On the ship, he had tried to think of a name for his new companion, but, lacking a vivid imagination and that creative spark, he only came up a dull, dated, overdone Blackie. Well, it had been accurately descriptive. And everything had worked out in the end, anyway, because the dog proved invaluable once he had been thrust into the hectic whirlwind of New York, and having something warm and loyal to come home to was enough to make him carry on, despite it all.

That was gone now.

He was alone.

Antonio had shown up later that evening, and when he had searched the house for Ludwig and had finally found him, and his dog, sitting still and silent in the tiny backyard, he had spoken, gentle words of comfort, but Ludwig had barely heard them.

It wasn't just the death of a dog.

It was the death of the last family he had, the death of the final attachment that he had to Germany, and above all, it was a numbing reminder that everyone that he cared for wound up dying. One way or another.

He was an ill omen.

His presence, perhaps, brought misfortune on those he loved.

Because nothing bad had happened to the Beilschmidts until they had adopted him. And if the dog had just stayed in Hamburg, he probably would have been picked up by another family, and would still be alive to wag his tail.

It would have been better if he had just _always _been alone, because that way he would never have had anyone to lose in the first place.

That was what he had been thinking about, that first day, sitting in the backyard in front of his dead friend, his living friend kneeling at his side and touching his shoulder, and he had just wanted to go to sleep.

...the first day hadn't been the worst.

It was the day _after _that he had begun to slip down the side of depression's cliff.

The day after, sitting in the living room on the couch, clutching money in his hands and staring down at his lap, struggling with the urge to just bow his head and cry. The pangs of loss were mingled with a terrible frustration, because now what did he do? What did he do with his dog? Brave Blackie, who had been as brave as his father, no doubt, and deserved just as much remembrance. He could not bury him in the backyard; he did not know if the city ordinance allowed it, and if they had, he still wouldn't have put him there anyway. He did not plan on living here forever, and the thought of leaving his best friend's remains for another family to come along and desecrate was horrifying. He had put a blanket over him until he had found a solution.

Antonio had suggested, uneasily, cremation.

But the nearest pet cemetery, ancient Hartsdale, was so _expensive_.

Bills were everywhere, and he was _so _tired and _so _depressed, and when Antonio had come inside and found him sitting there despondently on the couch and asked him what was wrong, he had only gripped the dollars and shook his head. He could barely speak. Antonio was patient, like he always was, and the money had been feather-light in his hands, and _oh_, never had he felt so miserable as he had then when he had finally looked up at Antonio and whispered, thickly, 'This is all I have. Just this. What can I do with this?'

He had been on the verge of bursting into tears.

Antonio had not spoken, then, and had left him alone, and he had sat there in a dumb stupor until late that evening, when Antonio finally returned. Pulling him up onto his feet, they had locked eyes and Antonio had said, 'Go get him. They're ready to go. I'll wait here.'

And _they _had turned out to be a driver from Hartsdale, and when he realized that Antonio had called them and gave them the address and had _paid _them, paid them everything, the cost of the cremation, the transport, the urn, oh, God...

Antonio had gone from being merely the other half of an equal partnership up into something that he had neither hoped for nor deserved.

He did not deserve Antonio. He would only end up hurting him, in the end.

Antonio had not allowed him to try and sputter meaningless words of gratitude, and pushed him towards the door, and he had gone into the backyard and took up the cold blanket that held his dog.

Now, Blackie sat on the mantle.

And that was the closest they would ever be again.

The floor in the corner was empty.

Even though his loyal dog was resting and no longer had to deal with the hellish world, he was not so fortunate, and it was harder than ever to get up in the morning.

He didn't even have the strength to blame Jones for his predicament. It would have been easier, to blame Jones for everything.

He was too numb to feel anger. He just wanted everything to end.

He was tired.

It had been this morbid dullness that had led him to foolishly cross into the far side of town, where arrogant Jones had strictly forbidden him from coming into, and maybe he had stepped foot there in the hopes of finding an escape.

Of course, Jones seemed to have an uncanny knack for ruining everything, no matter what he did. He was in the wrong, and he ruined everything. He tried to be in the right, and still he ruined everything.

Why couldn't Jones have just done what everyone had expected of him?

Christ, he had sought out Jones so that the American brat would put him out of his misery, not so that he would try out a new good guy move and make everything all the worse, and so much more awkward, and so much more _difficult_.

His mind was so blurry that he didn't even stop to wonder _why _Jones had suddenly looked so beleaguered, or what had happened to him to make him kneel down on the street.

What was going on behind the guarded, confident eyes.

In all honesty, he didn't much care. He didn't care about anything anymore. He didn't know why he even bothered to get out of bed now, except for perhaps the desire to repay Antonio what he owed. He could at least do that.

"Ludwig, won't you eat?"

Gazing upward past Antonio's dark eyes, he looked at the clock, and breathed, "I'm sorry. It's late. I have to go."

With that, he pushed away from the table and passed soundlessly to the door, leaving yet another plate untouched, and he kept his eyes straight ahead so that he would not have to see the disappointment on Antonio's face.

He was dragging Antonio down with him, and he hated himself for it. Antonio was always trying to be supportive, but he was starting to bend, too. Ludwig could _see _it, in his shoulders, and his eyes, and his weak smile. Antonio was wearing down.

It was cold outside.

He passed like a wraith through the streets, going to work because if he did not, then he would sit at home and go crazy, and maybe he would do something that would end up harming Antonio more than himself.

And his strange, fleeting, disjointed thoughts continued, even as he pulled on an apron and threw flour on the counter, and as he sat the water on the stove to warm, it occurred to him that if his real parents were still alive somewhere, he should not ever try to seek them out, because they would probably be ashamed of him.

Staring off into the distance, he heard the whirring of the water, and tossed it mindlessly into the bowl that held the yeast.

They probably wouldn't want anything to do with him anyway.

He sifted together the flour and sugar, cracking eggs on the rim of the bowl as he looked down with a furrowed brow.

They had left him for a reason.

Reaching out, he dumped the dissolved yeast into the mixture and began to knead.

Maybe they had seen something hopeless in him.

He rolled the dough into loaves and set them off to the side, covering them as he left them to rise.

Even then.

Pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, he wondered if maybe his real father had been as honorable as his adoptive father. He had wondered it frequently, back in the orphanage, but it had been many years since he had even thought about his birth parents. He had liked to pretend that they had abandoned him for economical reasons. Maybe his father was an honorable man.

Or maybe he was like Jones' father.

Maybe he was a champion of the Third Reich. Maybe he would have domineered and manipulated, if he had raised him, and maybe he would have bullied and filled his head with mindless prejudice.

Maybe _he _would have turned out like Jones. Maybe Jones would have turned out different, too, if he had had a better father.

Maybe Jones...

He checked the dough. Nothing yet.

Time passed.

Jones had sounded so strange when he had banged on his door.

Time passed.

He checked again. And now he tilted his head.

The dough wouldn't rise.

...maybe, in a different time and place, he and Jones could have been friends.

Unconcerned and lethargic, he threw the wrap back over the dough and resumed his pacing, his thoughts far away from his job, and he did not even notice when another hour passed until his boss had appeared at the kitchen door and observed him with a furrowed brow.

"Hey."

He looked up, startled, and his boss acknowledged the resting dough with a tilt of his head.

"Is that ready yet? I'm starting to get backed up out front. I've only got a few loaves left. You know how busy Fridays are."

A jolt of adrenaline as his heart raced, and he came out of his stupor for the first time in weeks and raced over to the dough, and when he lifted the cover, his heart sank. Nothing. As flat as when he had first set them there, and it was with a terrible churning of nervousness in his stomach that he looked over his shoulder, and the manager had come up behind him, and lowered a stern brow.

"It didn't rise? Didn't you check the temperature of the water before you put in the yeast?"

"I..."

And he remembered, with something that felt like mortification, that he had been so out in space that he had actually let the water _boil _(that whirring! He should have noticed it), and then he had poured it into the bowl, and of course it wasn't rising now, because all of the yeast had died in the scalding water.

Stupid. Stupid.

_Stupid_.

How many years had he been doing this? He knew better.

His boss sighed, and put a hand on his forehead, and Ludwig bowed his head in shame.

"Throw it out," he finally said, shaking his head. "It's useless now. Just throw it out."

There was a silence, and he kept his eyes firmly on the floor, and he had a horrible sense of dread.

"Listen, you've been really out of it these past couple of weeks. I don't know why, I mean, what's wrong? Family problems? Money problems? You don't ever talk to me, so I don't know. I think you should take some time off. Go home. Take two weeks. For now, I'll just get my daughters to come in and work the kitchen."

Another sigh.

"I'll have to close shop early today. It'll take three more hours to have another batch ready. Go home. Rest. I'll call you in two weeks, and let you know..."

Let him know.

Let him know if he still had a job, was the unspoken conclusion. He could only hang his head in defeat, staring at the floor, and he did not argue because he had fucked up, after all, and it was only fair...

His heart was hammering so fast that he felt dizzy, and he remembered with a sick lurch the tiny pile of bills that lay on the end table, and the meager stack of money in his dresser.

Two weeks. He could last two weeks.

Maybe.

He trudged home, and when he stepped through the door, he brushed straight past Antonio and up the stairs, and when he collapsed on his bed, he buried his face in the pillow and squinted his eyes.

The fog of depression was starting to suffocate him.

He passed the day lying inert, and he could not meet Antonio's eyes as he hovered over the bed, whispering and pleading, and only one thing Antonio said managed to cut through the mist :

"Please don't give up... You're the only friend I have."

He would end up hurting Antonio.

The days passed in a dizzy blur.

The pain in his head intensified. The voices of ghosts were getting louder.

He wanted to go to sleep.

Antonio's presence was no longer enough. Because Antonio was just one person, wasn't he, and if the entire world was just full of hate and misery then what was even the point?

He lasted the first week.

And then, on the eve of the first day in December, he finally pulled himself from his bed, grabbed up his coat, and walked out the door, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

He missed his dog.

Maybe death would not be so bad.

He missed his mother.

It couldn't be _worse_.

He missed his father.

He was _tired_.

He missed his brother.

He walked stiffly and unsteadily, and he knew that he was far too pale, and the circles under his eyes were too dark, and his shoulders were too slumped. Still he walked onward nonetheless, and he had eyes only for those whom he sought out.

He would find them eventually. Of that, he was certain.

Antonio would be hurt.

He passed by shops, the glowing lights shining out into the streets and setting them ablaze, and as he was walking the grey skies above opened up, and it began to snow. He did not feel the cold, as he walked against the flow of the people passing, rising up on his toes every so often to search the opposite streets.

They had to be out here.

Somewhere.

But at least this way Antonio could not put the blame on himself, and everyone would tell him, 'oh, it's a shame, but there was nothing you could have done,' and eventually, Antonio would believe it and carry on with his life.

Antonio would be better off without him.

The snow turned dirty on the pavement and melted into a dark grey slush. He trudged through it, as the skies turned ever darker, and even the warm glow of the shops could not break through the gloom. The streetlamps were coming on. The wind blew the bare branches of the ornamental trees.

He missed hiking through forests, walking through tall grass and winding in between great oaks, like he had so many times that year, his brother stuck firmly at his side and gripping his hand as he led him off on adventures in the woods.

The streets were thinning as people began to retreat from the dismal weather. He no longer had to duck and dodge around them, and walked straight ahead. His head was spinning with the effort of walking, his chest hurt, but somewhere out in these streets lay another ticket to a different kind of freedom.

He had walked in the forests years after his brother had left him, but it hadn't been the same, and sometimes if the breeze blew a certain way, there was a horrible stench that came in through the trees.

So much death in the world. It was just another part of life.

Loud voices on the other side of the street caught his attention, and when he looked over, the rush of adrenaline in his veins made his stomach churn; there they were. Loud-mouthed and walking with undeserved airs of self-satisfaction, they were traveling in the opposite direction. Either they had not seen him for the grey gloom, or they were in good moods and simply didn't care, but they passed by without incident. For a moment, he could only watch them in stunned silence, clenching his hands together at his sides as they began to tremble, and he forgot to breathe.

This was it.

Once he crossed the street...

Once he caught their attention...

There was no turning back.

...Antonio would be better off without him.

Pulling himself from immobility, he sucked in a great breath, and darted across the street, nearly slipping in the icy sludge. He stumbled up on to the sidewalk, and they were already far ahead of him, stuck firmly into each others' sides. He counted them; someone was missing.

Jones.

Oh, thank God, thank God. Jones would have just ruined everything.

Bracing his shoulders, he stalked off after them, and with every step he took, he imagined that he was walking closer towards his family, not enemies, because if everything went according to plan then it would be his family that he saw in the end.

"Hey."

They did not hear him for the bustling of the streets.

He quickened his pace. They were closer.

"Hey!"

They were laughing amongst themselves, cigarettes in hand and stomping through the melting snow contentedly. They looked at home on the streets, totally in their place in this foul air, belonging completely to the city.

They could keep it.

"_Hey_!"

His voice was much deeper and louder and braver than he actually felt, and they suddenly turned in their tracks, and when they saw him standing there, they froze still.

His hands trembled in anticipation.

They watched him.

Everything was silent, and then one of them tossed their cigarette down. It extinguished on the wet pavement, like he would soon, and he took a bold step forward. The snow was falling more thickly than ever. He waited. His heart was hammering in his chest.

But still, they stood there, watching him with curious eyes and giggling to themselves.

Then the one that had dropped his cigarette threw a hand in the air, and said, lazily, "What? What d'you want? Huh? Go home, Fritz, we're goin' to Broadway. What? D'you wanna come?" Their giggles intensified. "Hey! You know! _The Diary of Anne Frank _just opened! Why don't you go down and see if they'll let you play a storm trooper?"

They burst into laughter, and he smiled with them, breathlessly.

"Now that's authentic!" one of them howled, and he took another step towards them.

How clever! Maybe they deserved an award for their originality.

"That's funny," he finally whispered, and his voice cracked with the effort of speaking, and finally they regained control of themselves.

He waited.

But then they turned around, saying, "Come on, we got better things to do," and they started to walk off. And, for the first time in weeks, something broke through his numbness.

Anger.

They turned their backs on him. So many times in the past he had struggled to avoid them, and still they came after him, relentless and vociferous, and now! Now, he was all but throwing himself at them, and they had the nerve—the shameless _audacity_—to turn their _backs _on him and walk off, as though he was somehow unworthy of their time and efforts. They had never let him rest. And by God, he would do the same to them now. He would not back off, until he got what he wanted.

He walked after them.

"Hey! Where are you going? I was talking to you!"

They looked over their shoulders, and one of them rolled their eyes and waved their hand in the air, as though swatting away an annoying fly.

He sped to catch them.

"Hey! Stop!"

And they did, and whirled around, and now their confident faces showed their irritation. One of them took a combative step forward, and spat, "Listen! You're startin' to piss me off! Go home, I said! I'm not the mood."

He held his arms out at his sides, and said, lowly, "So do something about it."

Oh, God, he thought he would faint from the adrenaline, and the tremble in his hands passed into his arms, and he could barely hold them up.

They stared at him, brows furrowed and lips pursed, and then, again, they scoffed and turned away.

Why?

Why? What, had he not invited them in?

It wasn't enough, and it was too much, and his head _hurt_; he reached out with reflexes he was surprised he still possessed, and grabbed the loud-mouthed punk by the collar. And when he yanked him back and whirled him around, he did something that he had _longed _to do for years.

He punched him as hard as he could in the face.

There was a muffled cry, and he fell backwards down onto the dirty sidewalk, and Ludwig stood over him, staring down at him as his chest heaved. The others stared at him, and then they lurched strangely, and for one horrible, dizzy moment, he actually thought they were going to turn around and run off, and _that _would have killed him dead right there, because if one simple punch was all he had had to do to prevent the torment of all these years...

Then they cried out, and were upon him.

He did not struggle.

Because this was what he had wanted all along, wasn't it? And the angrier they were, the faster it would go.

Someone grabbed his arm and threw him back against the side of a building. The coarse brick was unyielding beneath him. The snow was clinging to his hair. The one that had fallen on the ground was slowly pulling himself to his feet, and his eyes burned with wrath.

Everything was dark.

The streetlamps were dull.

He remembered the bright sun from years past, and Jones standing there in the street, watching silently as his father stomped on the old man...

The sunshine had not saved Schulze. And maybe it had seemed like night to him anyhow.

He was in the dark too. There was never any salvation in the night. It was alright.

Schulze had been the lucky one.

He was prepared to die. He was not yet willing to do it himself, not with his own two hands, but if he were beaten out of existence by these hate-filled punks then he would be completely blameless in the eyes of God, and maybe he would see his ghosts once more.

A sharp pain in his stomach.

He fell.

History was doomed to repeat itself, wasn't it, and he would lie down now on the sidewalk just like his mother had lied down in the bathtub in the winter of '45, and he would leave Antonio alone and in the dark, as his mother had left him, and maybe, just maybe, everyone had taken the time to wait for him.

They would not be upset that he had given up.

A boot in his side burned like fire, and he heard the crack of a rib as it caved under the force.

There was a faint whooshing in his ears.

...maybe it was taking longer than he had expected.

His head exploded with a sharp pain.

Everything slowed.

And then suddenly the dark seemed strangely bright, and the sun came out in full force, lighting up the grey streets like a beacon. Everything was a blinding white, and the drifting snow seemed black in contrast.

Maybe it was the light at the end of the tunnel.

He thought he heard their voices.

A soft, clear barking in the distance.

White.

The sun was white.

A flash of obscurity. A shadow fell over him.

A silence.

The kicking stopped. There was a loud scuffle right above him. Someone was screaming.

Everything went still.

Digging his fingers into the grimy, slick sidewalk, he somehow managed to lift his head, just a centimeter, and opened his eyes, squinting for the bright light.

Someone was standing above him.

Their hair shined golden-white in the crystal-clear illumination, boots braced in the snow and shoulders tensed, and the first thought that crossed his delirious mind was that it was his father, coming to see him off.

He tried to push off the pavement, but it was no use; he had not the strength even to tell his father 'hello'.

The intense light slowly, slowly began to dim, and he could see the dull shine of a leather jacket in the snow. He could hear the first voices breaking through the drums in his head, and his father was taller and deeper-voiced.

Maybe it was his brother.

"Get outta here!"

No, wait...

Jones?

Head pounding and hearing that dull whooshing in his ears, he reached up blindly and grabbed the edge of the building as something warm dripped down his head and into his collar, and he lifted his head and squinted his eyes to make sure that he was not just seeing things. Oh, God, he had to be seeing things. He could not handle it.

When his vision cleared, when everything came into focus, when he realized that the magnificent white sun was just a dull blue streetlamp, and the snow was grey and everything else was too, it was not with a relief.

Because it _was _Jones.

Jones.

No. No. No, no, no, no, this wasn't right.

Jones was standing above him, screaming at those whom he had once called _friends_, and his feet and hands were braced for war. His jacket was soaked with melted snow, his hair damp and messy, and from beneath him, Ludwig could see the looks of absolute disbelief on the others' faces as they squared off. His clenched fist at his side dripped blood onto the pavement. He had hit one of them, and maybe had been hit in return.

This wasn't part of the plan...

Someone reached out and pushed him, but Jones did not move. They hissed and spit like vipers, but Jones did not move. They stomped their feet threatening, but Jones did not move. One of them reached out and tried to cuff his ear, but Jones blocked it, and did not move.

He wouldn't move.

He wouldn't move.

And, _oh_, Ludwig _hated _him for. Jones ruined everything. Everything.

_Everything_.

He gripped his fingers into the coarse brick and tried to haul himself up, and succeeded only in falling backwards, and he could only sit, back to the wall, and stare up at Jones through a cloud of abhorrence as he came back from the dark.

His chest ached and stung and it hurt to breathe, and this was _wrong_.

The black in his vision finally faded, and suddenly he felt sick. Throwing his hand over his mouth to stifle his nausea, he tried again to pull himself to his feet, and this time he made it onto his knees. If he could just slink off before Jones turned around...

He could not face him right now. He couldn't.

But his head was still reeling, and every time he raised himself up, his only reward was a dangerous lurch of lightheadedness. He was forced to stop, and stared blankly ahead as he gathered himself.

A flash of movement caught his eyes, and one of them (the same one he had hit earlier, he realized with something that almost felt like satisfaction) had burst forward like a wolf, striking Jones across the face with dizzying speed. For a second, Jones staggered, as though he would lose his balance, but then he retaliated, landing his fist in his friend's (sure to be _ex_-friend now, Ludwig thought humorlessly) nose. A stumble backwards, and they all began to step back.

The injured one looked particularly betrayed.

"Jones," he ground out, holding his nose as they all fell back, "Your dad is gonna beat your _ass_!"

There was a thick silence, and then something horrible happened :

Jones reached down, and before Ludwig could even pull away, he had grabbed his upper arm and pulled him up to his feet with one mighty yank. His head split open, and even though he wanted to punch Jones across the face too, his body just wouldn't cooperate with his mind.

Weak and subdued, he bowed his head, listening irritably as Jones spat to them, "My _dad_? My _dad _can't even tell me that he loves me! He's just a busted old man. _Coward_! I don't care about him! And I don't give a fuck about any of _you_, either!"

Jones forced his arm over his broad shoulders, and now his bowed head was of shame, not exhaustion.

He could not bear this shame.

"Go say it to your old man's face!"

Tossed over Jones' shoulder like a damn bag.

Jones scoffed, and added proudly, if not spitefully, "Go tell him yourself! You're good at that, aren't you? Go back home and snitch like you always do! See what I care. Tell my dad what I did. And while you're at it, tell him that I'm _not _afraid of him anymore!"

Bold statements, no doubt, just from what _he _had seen of Jones' father, but his confident words were betrayed by his heart; it was beating so rapidly and so furiously that Ludwig, pressed up against his side, could _feel _it, even through his jacket, and Ludwig suspected that he was, as a matter of fact, still very much afraid of his father.

For all it mattered.

"You're finished, Jones."

"Fuck off," was Jones' unconcerned, if not lame, response, and then they scattered to the winds, and everything was quiet again.

He could feel Jones' heart hammering.

A moment of awkward silence, and then Jones shifted his weight and tried to pull him up straight, and he said, voice thin and maybe nervous, "Man! What jerks, huh?"

His hands were trembling again, in anger.

Jones ruined everything.

"Can you walk? Come on."

Jones took a step forward, trying to pull him gingerly along, and for a dumb moment, he could only lift his foot and step along, and Jones' obnoxious voice was driving away _their _voices, and he hated him for that, too. The snow was starting to stick to the pavement, and he could only imagine how this whole thing looked; Jones dragging him along through the gloom, as blood trickled down his neck, and both of them were scratched and battered and completely crestfallen, and there was no sun anymore.

He could feel Jones' eyes upon him, but he did not look up to meet them.

He had been so close.

"What's your name?"

It took a moment for the question to resonate, and when it finally struck him, he _did _look up, and was with a furrowed brow that he caught Jones' apprehensive gaze.

"What?" was all he managed, and now Jones was unable to continue the staring contest, and turned his eyes straight ahead, his brow low.

A moment of silence, and then Jones asked, again, "What's your name?"

Five years.

It had been five years. And now Jones asked him his name?

_Now_?

The anger was overwhelming, burning far more than his broken rib ever could.

He clenched his jaw, braced his feet in the snow, bringing both of them to a halt, and ground out, "Get away from me."

Jones' eyes narrowed in what could have been annoyance, almost as though he had not expected such resistance—what, had he thought he would be greeted as a hero? Years of torment forgotten in one moment of weakness?—and he tightened his grip on Ludwig's arm when he tried to pull away.

"Knock it off!" he barked, refusing to slacken his grip. "What's your problem?"

Ludwig gritted his teeth to keep his retort at bay, and tried again to pull away.

Fuck Jones and his pity. They could both go to hell. He should _never_ have come out here.

Jones was dragging him along again, and this time it was not so gentle, and his voice was rough and authoritative as he said, "I'm taking you to the hospital."

The hospital?

Another stack of bills that he could not pay. Help that he did not want. Rescue that he detested. Salvation that he sought to avoid.

"No," was all that he finally managed to hiss, and Jones' eyes widened in incredulousness.

"You can't even walk! You gotta go."

"No."

The atmosphere was growing ever tenser, and he was sick with adrenaline, and maybe Jones was too.

"I'm not asking if you _want _to go," was the harsh response, and Jones' eyes were stern and unyielding as he looked over at him, fingers digging into his arm so fiercely that there would no doubt be bruises later.

Was there no escape? He felt like crying all of a sudden.

He had been _so _close...

Jones ruined _everything_.

He bowed his head, furrowed his brow, and his voice was thick and low as he whispered, miserably, "I _hate _you."

Jones' rapid pace slowed into a crawl, and he did not speak, and his grip on Ludwig's arm lessened, just a little. There was a pause, and the ache in his head was ever intensifying, and then Jones finally spoke, and even in his beaten state he could hear the defeat in his voice as he said, "Yeah. I know."

Then he sped back up, but when they approached the hospital, Jones dragged him down another street, and he felt the first prick of relief. But it fled as quickly as it had come, because suddenly he could see the Urgent Care down in the distance, and maybe it was cheaper, and maybe it was faster, and maybe Jones meant well, but he did not want any doctor poking and prodding him.

He did not want stitches, and if his broken rib was digging into an organ, or an artery, then he did not want anyone discovering it and fixing it before it could kill him.

Yet Jones dragged him through the door nonetheless, and stood there beside him in the lobby, and he felt the horrible burn of shame on his cheeks as Jones scratched out the paperwork clumsily, leaving most of it blank, attaching a deposit on the clipboard as he shoved it back through.

Could someone die of shame?

This was all wrong.

Wrong.

He hoped someone could die of shame. Because it was enough to make him want to crawl under a rock somewhere.

The awkward time passed in a blur, and he tried to shut down his mind as he sat on the cold table and Jones answered the nurse's questions with false information. Fingers poked his chest, his stomach, his back, he felt the chill of the metal stethoscope above his heart, and the whole while Jones stood in the corner, arms crossed above his chest, eyes unreadable; his foot was tapping.

It occurred to him, absurdly, that maybe Jones was just biding time, so that he would not have to go home and deal with the wrath of his father.

Jones looked miserable too.

With every minute that passed, the anger and hatred were dulling down into defeat and despair.

...maybe it hadn't been the right time. Maybe he had been too hasty, and now, because he had been blinded by a fog of depression, he was in an even worse predicament than before.

It was bad enough, owing Antonio.

But to owe _Jones_...

Maybe it hadn't been the right time.

His chest burned.

The doctor came in, with thread and needle, and when he felt the tugs on his scalp as he began to stitch, he looked up and caught Jones' eyes, and Jones tried to smile, weakly. It fell halfway, and then Jones only shrugged a shoulder.

Ludwig could only stare at him, unmoving and unblinking, and finally Jones dropped his head and stared at his feet.

God, God, what could ever be said between them? It was too _awkward_. Just too awkward.

The hours passed in silence, the doctor gave him an injection for the pain of his cracked rib, and then he was sent off, and when he staggered off towards the door, Jones was running after him.

"Hey, wait!"

He did not, looking straight ahead and pretending that he did not hear.

Wouldn't Jones just leave him alone? Hadn't he done enough?

Suddenly Jones was at his side, and he straightened his glasses as he tagged along like an annoying puppy, asking, "Do you want me to walk you home? You might fall."

"No," was his monotonous response, and Jones' face fell a bit.

"Look," he began, and still he walked alongside him, and he seemed to be struggling for words, "I know that... Well, that is... _Damn_, I don't even know what to say to you! ...are you gonna be alright?"

He did not respond, and Jones was becoming increasingly agitated at his silence.

"Well? Aren't ya gonna say something?"

What was there to say? He did not have any particularly nice thoughts running through his head, and any words that he said would come off as rude and maybe insensitive.

"Well?"

It was better to stay quiet.

"Won't you even tell me your name? Mine's Alfred, if you wanted to know."

He didn't.

He was almost home. Just a little farther. Jones was grating his nerves.

Then, when his house was in sight, Jones reached out and grabbed his arm, preventing him from moving, and their eyes met in a moment of intensity. Jones opened his mouth as if to speak, and then lost his voice.

And then Jones went too far.

Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a handful of bills, and then he reached down and grabbed Ludwig's hand, forcing the money inside before he could pull away. He was silent, shuffling his feet, and Ludwig could only stare at the money in numb silence.

It would have been enough to sustain him for months, such money, and he finally asked, tersely, "What _is _this?"

The snow fell.

Jones tucked his hands into his pockets nervously, and Ludwig could barely hear his voice for how low it was when he whispered, "For your... For your dog. I didn't mean for that to happen."

The words cut him like a knife, and the anger was back, because even when he thought he was _helping_, Jones was still so completely arrogant and self-centered that he _really _did, in fact, believe that the world revolved around him. And he assumed that Ludwig blamed him for the death of his dog because, of course, _he _was responsible for everything!

Foolish. Proud. _Idiotic_.

Gripping the money so hard in his hand that it crumpled, he met Jones' eyes, as the fury stung in his veins, because he had not blamed Jones—

_Don't touch that dog_!

—not _really_, because Jones did not control everything, even though he thought that he did, and yet still...

It was the most insulting thing Jones could have done.

Finally, he found his voice, and muttered, voice wavering as he tried to control his rage, "Is this... Is this what you think he was worth to me?"

Jones' face fell.

He drew his hand back and tossed the money in Jones' face, hissing, "Keep it!" Then he whirled around when Jones' head bowed in defeat, and he stalked off up his steps, clutching his side as his fracture stung. And when he reached the door, and when he yanked it open and stepped inside, he turned, just for a second.

Jones stood there in the snow, shoulders slumped and staring blankly ahead, and the money was lying there on the sidewalk, soaked and forlorn, and for a horrible moment, Jones looked as utterly defeated as he himself had when he had stood before the mirror and held the razor in his hands.

He looked up, and met Ludwig's eyes, and whispered, "I just wanted to help."

Then he hung his head and turned and walked off like a ghost down the street, leaving the money behind on the sidewalk.

His footsteps in the slushy snow made no sound.

Ludwig watched him go, and after a moment, Jones was gone.

Jones. His name was Alfred.

His anger was ever subsiding, with Jones out of his sight and as the painkillers flowed through him, and he retreated.

As he shut the door, back again in his home that he had been certain he would never see again, he sat down on the couch and stared ahead at the wall, and maybe he wondered, against the pain in his head, if either of them would ever lead normal lives. If either of them would ever be happy. If either of them would escape the ghosts that weighed them down.

Jones was a fool. So was he.

Jones made everything worse. So did he.

Maybe he and Jones were not so different as he had first imagined.

He said that he just wanted to help.

Ha.

...maybe, in a different time and place, he and Jones could have been friends.

His name was Alfred.


	8. Gold and Silver Waltz

**Chapter 8**

**Gold and Silver Waltz**

_She opened, but to shut excelled her power._

_The gates wide open stood._

He had always hated school. Obnoxious teachers, obnoxious students (that exceeded even _his _standard of obnoxiousness), pointless homework, useless facts that he would never use in real life, more crushing humility and blows to self-worth than he had _ever _needed, and he had been so upset at how he looked in the mirror in his suit that he had ditched his prom date in the rain and refused to go entirely.

He had _hated _school.

And if there was one thing that Alfred had hated more than school, it was reading, and when his English lit. class had actually sat there and read _Paradise Lost_, he had wanted nothing more than to bury his face in his arms and cry, because it was _so _boring, and _so _long, and he couldn't even _understand _it, and _why_? Why did he need to read this? He had spent most of the time with his pencil in his mouth and staring off into space, until the teacher had called on him, once, to read a passage. He had sat there, clenching his pencil, palms sweaty with nervousness, and as he fumbled his way through the literary dreg, mispronouncing everything and stammering, everyone snickered at him, and he had wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor and die. But then Alice, sitting in the desk behind him, had cried, lowly, 'Don't listen, you sound great, Alfred!', and, finding courage under her praise, he had swallowed and carried on.

That one line had stayed with him, even all these years later.

He didn't know why.

_The gates wide open stood._

It meant—well, he _thought _it meant—the release of hell upon the earth. Maybe he had understood it wrong, but that was what made sense to _him_, and maybe that was why he had remembered it so clearly.

He knew more than he cared to about hell on earth.

He had spent more time just sitting there watching than he had trying to close the floodgates.

Not that he could have, anyway.

Those had been his strange thoughts that night, as he had lied there on the floor below Matthew's bed, arms crossed behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling, vision blurry without his glasses and black eye throbbing from his scuffle, still feeling the rush of adrenaline in his veins.

He was almost amazed at himself, if amazed was an appropriate word.

Horrified might have been a better choice, because he had been an idiot, pure and simple, but despite it all, he was almost proud of himself.

It had been more than he had ever expected.

To pick up his enemy off the sidewalk, to pull him to his feet, and to walk down the street with him, side by side, like they were equals, had been something far beyond exhilarating. Maybe it hadn't been the best of circumstances, as they both looked like they had just stepped out of the middle of a tornado, but that hadn't really mattered. It had been surreal, almost, to hold the German against his side, to feel him there, like he was a friend. To stand there with him, like comrades, had been so strange that he wondered several times if he was just dreaming.

And the whole time he had watched the German, he had taken in everything about him. How serious his eyes always were, how unshakeable his attitude, how calm his demeanor no matter what, how deep his voice was when he finally said a word here or there, and how he was everything that Alfred was not.

How his eyes, golden in the summer sun, had been nearly silver in the ghostly streetlamps.

They were opposites.

And maybe the German hadn't spoken to him in a friendly manner, and maybe he had only stared at him with those cool, unreadable eyes, and maybe he had pulled away from his touch, but it was more than Alfred had expected.

He hadn't been punched in the face, at least.

He hadn't been punched, no, but he had gotten something worse.

_I hate you._

He _knew _that the German hated him, of course he did, but to hear him _say _it...

It stung.

He had only wanted to help. But God help him, he was so awkward and tactless, and as he lied there, thinking back on it, he could only furrow his brow and try to count out exactly how many mistakes he had made in such a short interaction.

Too many for one hand.

What had he been thinking, to do such a stupid thing to someone who was obviously still grieving the loss of a best friend? Putting a price, as he had, on a life.

Even so, as Matthew had explained it to him when he had crawled in through the bedroom window and collapsed on the floor and recounted the tale breathlessly, progress had been made, and maybe it was even a _good _sign that the German had told him that he hated him because that meant that there was _some _kind of connection. He didn't understand it, not quite, but Matthew said that if someone tells you that they hate you, then they've had you on their mind for a while, and maybe reconciliation was much closer than it appeared.

It would have been worse, Matthew had said, if he hadn't spoken at all.

Well...

Maybe Matthew was just trying to make him feel better, but it was working, and it was comforting to think that maybe things hadn't gone as badly as he had first imagined.

Matthew had looked _so _proud, and right before he had drifted off into sleep, he had whispered down, "You did so good, Alfred," and Alfred could only smile and clench his pillow tightly. As Mathew finally fell asleep, he stayed awake, and replayed the evening over and over again in his head.

Next time, he would do better.

Next time, he would be sure of himself, and would take the reigns more smoothly.

Next time, he would find better words to express himself.

Next time, maybe the German would shake his hand.

Next time.

Feeling hopeful and brave, he finally closed his eyes and let himself drift, as Matthew snored gently above him, and the night passed slowly and restlessly.

The snow finally stopped.

The morning broke cold and dim, behind a heavy cloud front.

While Matthew slept, he pulled himself to his feet as the first glow of light broke through the curtains, put on his glasses, and silently lifted the window pane, slipping out into the freezing air before everyone else woke up.

New day, new opportunities.

And yet despite the warm throb of pride and satisfaction that had sustained him through the endless night, as soon as he leapt into the snow-covered streets, leaving behind the warmth and comfort of Matthew's bedroom, there was something else running through his veins.

A dull, icy dread.

Because there was only one place to go now.

Home.

Matthew's small, quiet house, full to the brim with small, quiet Matthew and his small, quiet siblings and his small, quiet parents, just couldn't sustain and harbor big, loud Alfred, and Alfred would never even consider asking to stay, even for just a week. They could not support him, and he could not thrive in such a fragile environment. A house of mice, when he was a lion? No way.

And even though he longed to pack up his things and move in with Francis, who always told him that he was more than welcome, he just couldn't. Francis lived alone, in a large, empty house, on the edge of the city, and even though it would have been a perfect environment for him, how could he move in with him, when his father already resented Francis so? How could he bring more hatred upon Francis, already long-suffering under his father's disdain? Francis, who had cared for him when his father had been at war, who had not even received a 'thanks' from his father, and had received instead many angry calls for 'spoiling' Alfred and turning him into 'a big crybaby'. And if Alfred were to move in with him _now_? His father would never get over it. How many angry phone calls would Francis receive then?

He couldn't do that.

This whole situation was his problem.

Not Matthew's.

And not Francis'.

He had to go home, sooner or later.

One day, he would find his own place, but not right now. He had spent so much time living in his youth that he had never taken the time to learn basic survival skills. How did he find a house? How did he read and sign papers? What did he need? How would he sustain himself? He couldn't do anything on his own. His father had always taken care of such things.

It would have been easier, maybe, just to grab up his things and run away, but where would he go? Where could he possibly go? He could not live on the streets; he was too proud.

For a strange, ridiculous moment, as he walked down the empty, cold streets, glowing pale from the breaking dawn, he had a vision in his head of himself, backpack in hand and running away from home, and as he darted through the streets, suddenly he had come to a halt in front of a familiar house, and when he knocked on the door, it swung open, and a pair of icy blue eyes stared out at him as he asked, helplessly, 'Can I crash here for a while?', and after a moment of silence, the door was pulled open and he stepped inside—

...yeah, right.

There was nowhere to go, and there was no one that he could place his burden upon, not even the German. _Especially _the German. He was stuck.

It was a terrible fact, one that made him sick, but he was still reliant upon his father.

Well, he could bear living in his father's house, as long as his father knew that he was no longer pressed down under his boot, and maybe things would be better now that his father had heard about what he had done.

Surely he had, by now.

No doubt that old Ryan had called him up on the phone in the dead of night, relaying the whole sordid event that his son had told him about, and Alfred was certain that every single word of it was now running through his father's head.

And his father was waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting...

He would let him know that he wasn't going to be controlled anymore. He could think for himself. He could make his own decisions.

But his father was waiting.

That was why he had diverted from his path and crept in through Matthew's window after he had seen the German home, because it was just too soon.

He needed a night to cool off. At least one night.

His house stood in the distance, and the very dim streets seemed suddenly foreboding.

He had wanted to avoid this, but he couldn't put it off forever...

Gathering his courage, he came up to the stairs, and took a step forward.

He expected a beating, alright, there was no denying that.

Another step.

He expected a bad one.

The doorknob gleamed in the pale light.

He expected, even, to be put in the hospital.

The windows were frosted with ice.

He certainly expected a beating.

But it would never come.

And yet he would realize later that somehow...

What he _did _get was worse.

Again.

He stood in front of the door far longer than necessary, bracing his feet and shoulders, and repeating in his head over and over again exactly what he would do when he burst in through the door. He had to be assertive, of course, and fearless, and when he pushed open the door, he would barge inside, stomping his boots as loudly as possible, chin held high, and when the old man stood up he would hold his ground and say, 'Yeah, I said it! I'm not afraid of you anymore, you old bastard!' and then maybe his father would be so taken aback that he would just let it go.

...unlikely.

Nevertheless, he would hold his ground.

He would be brave. He would not back down. He would not go down without a fight.

With these bold thoughts in his head, he inhaled and exhaled a deep breath, and pushed open the door, plunging through the threshold.

He was home.

Stomping his boots as he had planned, he marched past the kitchen and into the living room, and for a moment, as he came to the first feel of carpet, he paused in hesitation.

The room was dim. The bulb overhead was off, and the only light in the room was from the television, ghostly and luminescent as the static crackled on a blank channel. The curtains were drawn. The air was cool from the morning; the heat was off. And yet despite the unnerving crackling of the static in his ears and the too-bright radiation of the television, he took a step forward, because he could see, over the back of the couch, the back of his father's grey hair.

Clenching his fists and puffing his chest, he resumed his march of war, and came around the side, until he was standing straight in front of the television, casting a shadow over his father. And for a second, his father only stared up at him, blearily, and then Alfred realized, with a slumping of his shoulders, that he had been drinking. A lot. An empty glass on the table, an equally empty bottle next to it, and he sat there, slumped forward, hair disheveled and shirt wrinkled, elbows resting on his knees, and Alfred only managed to purse his lips and furrow his brow.

A newspaper was strewn on the floor.

The phone was off the hook in the kitchen. He could hear the dial tone over the static.

He could smell the whiskey in the stale air.

He meant to reach back, and turn off the television, but before he could manage his father had looked up at him, and for a horrible second, Alfred was not sure if he even recognized him in his drunken state.

Pitiful.

"Hey, there," he began, slowly, uncomprehendingly, and Alfred met his eyes, and then he smiled, and a light came on from behind the haze. "Oh, Alfred! I thought you were someone else! I was talking to the colonel, earlier, about what we're gonna do about those damn Panzers down near the river, but...damn if I don't know where the hell he went off to..."

A colonel? Panzers?

Alfred had heard so many stories like that before...

_Down the river, we took 'em out and pushed 'em back past the bridge, into the town, and then we set fire to the barn_—

A drunken flashback, no doubt.

He sighed, and could feel his boldness slowly creeping out, and the combativeness was going too, under his father's blurry gaze. Shaking his head, Alfred could only fall down on one knee before the coffee table, and take up the empty bottle in his hand as he muttered, wearily, "Oh, dad... You gotta stop drinkin'. There's no one else here."

His voice was stern, and his father only sat there, silent and still, and the disappointment that he felt was overwhelming everything else.

Even when he was expecting to stand up for himself against a beating, when he was expecting to voice his thoughts, his father always just let him down...

And when he reached down and grabbed up sheets of the newspaper, there was a deep, soft, almost mournful whisper above him, "Oh, Alfred... They're gettin' ya, aren't they?"

Frowning, he looked up, and his father was staring down at him with a low brow, fingers clenching the fabric of his pants. For a second, Alfred could only gaze upwards, and then suddenly his father fell back into the couch, and buried his face in his hands.

Alfred pulled himself up to his feet.

...they?

The room was too cold.

And all of his previous sure thoughts were gone like smoke, when his father's fingers crept down until finally his eyes peered above them, and it struck him, instantly, the _hurt _there.

He had not expected that.

"I didn't believe it," his father suddenly began, and his voice was muffled and thick by his palms, "when old Ryan told me what you'd said. I didn't believe it."

Alfred could only stand straight before him, shoulders and feet braced, and he kept his brow low, trying to look braver than he felt, and his father's hands fell down into his lap, and his eyes were so betrayed and accusative and so _hurt_...

"Oh, Christ, I didn't believe it! That my son would ever say those things, behind my back. That after all the years I spent out there fightin' evil, walking through those towns and droppin' down into those fields, Jerry and Panzers everywhere, watchin' all my friends die right in front of me, that my own boy would call me a _coward_. My boy, that I raised... You coulda called me anything, Alfred, anything you damn well wanted, but _that _word..."

Coward.

He _had _said it, hadn't he?

Coward.

How strange. He had called his father _hero _not so long ago.

His father _was _a coward, but maybe he was too, for tossing him aside like so much trash...

_My boy, that I raised..._

There were fathers who dumped their sons in orphanages after the deaths of their mothers. There were fathers who kicked their sons out of their houses, and into the cold, ruthless streets. There were fathers who _killed _their sons.

His father had raised him.

Alone.

He was a son, and sons were bound to honor their fathers.

And for a horrible moment, there was something twisting in his stomach that he couldn't quite place, and even though he had spent these past weeks abhorring everything his father _was_, to see him like this, being cut to pieces by his own son's words, was almost too much.

His father had raised him...

He hated him.

He was obligated to his father.

He hated him.

He didn't have to like him.

He hated him.

But maybe he was obligated to love him.

He _hated _him.

But he had to love him too.

Oh, God help him...

What could he do?

And that was why, when his father fell down onto his knees on the floor, snatching Alfred's hands and pulling him down, too, he could only let himself fall. It was so strange, to sit there on folded knees before him as his father's warm hands engulfed his own, and almost surreal, and suddenly his father's eyes were boring into his own with such excruciating intensity that he was unable to look away.

Where had his bold words gone, now that he needed them?

He couldn't move.

He was frozen under his father's presence.

Letting his father grip his hands and sway in closer, he felt that awful burn of conflicting emotions in his veins (a longing aggression mingled with a numbing reluctance to act upon it) when his father leaned in and whispered, voice fervent and sure and always so confident, and so _convincing_, "Alfred, you'll never understand... I hope you never have to know... I spent those days out there under fire so that you would never have to know what it's like."

Caught under that voice that had ruled over his life since he had been a child, that voice that was _always _in his head no matter where he was, that voice that had always told him that it was right and _he _was wrong, and he had always believed it, and now he could only whisper, breathlessly, "What what's like?"

He was almost entranced.

His father swayed for a moment, and Alfred thought that he would fall over drunk, but then he came back down, and his eyes burned with clarity and intensity as he continued, eagerly, "Evil! If you ever see it, you won't forget. Have you ever—have you ever stood there, face to face with a man, just like this—" he leaned in so close that their noses nearly touched "—and _knew _that when you looked into his eyes, you were just lookin' right into _evil_? Just evil? And no matter how scared you were, you had to keep goin' through and shootin' down the planes and burnin' the towns, because they're all _evil_, Alfred... You think you know what a hero is? You think I'm a coward, but just wait... Wait until you look into his _eyes_, Alfred, and you'll see. There's nothin' there lookin' back at you. Just evil... And it takes a real hero to shoot a man that's on his knees, because you know that if you let him up he'll just go right back to his old ways, and as long as you let any of them live, then the world will never be safe... If you let him up because he says he has a son at home, then you're just ruinin' the future of your own son. They can't be good, when they were born bad. They're not people, Alfred, don't you see? If you have the courage to see it and admit it... _That's _a hero, Alfred."

Silence.

A terrible silence.

His father's balmy hands squeezed his own, and he was smiling zealously, and Alfred could only stare back at him with wide eyes and a low brow, feeling sick.

And for a moment...

A hero.

For a moment, he had almost believed it.

He almost believed it, and all he could see in his mind was his father in the American uniform, pushing through tall, damp grass in France, and everyone in Europe greeted him as a hero, and no one would ever question him, no one would _ever _be so ignorant as Alfred and call him a _coward_...

He had almost believed it.

It had felt so much better to be proud of his father. To think that his father really was a hero.

It had felt so much better.

And it would have been so easy, just to bow his head and give in, like he had all these years, and life would go on so much more smoothly, and maybe he _would _have, if not for...

The tall, damp grass in France faded into the dirty, snow-covered streets of Manhattan, and instead of his father, he saw the platinum-haired German, and instead of glory and pride, there was only despair and anguish, and when the German had been slumped there beside of him, when his arm had been around his destined enemy to hold him upright, he had felt _good_. Oh, God, he had felt _good_, even if the German had told him that he hated him, even if the whole thing was crazy, even if they hadn't spoken, even if there was still such animosity in the air, it didn't matter, because he had felt good about himself.

He couldn't remember the last time he had _really _felt good about himself.

Not for years.

But now...

Hearing it all over again, after he thought he had broken the bonds, was mortifying. Listening to this again, after he had picked the German up off the street like he would a comrade, he felt like he had just turned around and betrayed the both of them again by even giving his father his ear. His father's words were so sincere, and so certain, as though he were stating an indisputable fact of life, that Germans were just evil, and God help him, he had almost believed it.

Again.

He had been swept into the glory of war. He had been naïve in his childhood.

Now, he hated every word. Every word.

And his father had killed other fathers, he had always known it, but to think now that his father had tried to do it in _his _name was enough to make him want to vomit.

How had he ever believed it?

Germans were evil.

How had he ever been so impressionable?

The German's anguished cry as he held his dead dog to his chest. The quiet resignation in his stance when he had all but offered himself to death out there on the street. The anger and hurt in his eyes as he had thrown the money in Alfred's face.

How could anyone like _that _be evil?

He was so ashamed of himself.

The static crackled behind.

His father was still smiling.

"I've seen it all, Alfred. I'm your father. I'm the only one that'll look out for you, in the end. They're tryin' to trick you. They're smart, they always were, but you just can't listen to them. Don't let 'em get you. Just look at him, and you'll know..."

Oh Jesus, oh God, how had he listened to this in his youth and _swallowed _it?

How had he sat like this before, staring into his father's eyes, and how had he heard his words and believed them and been so _proud_?

Feeling a rise of horror, he opened his mouth, and he wanted to say that he _had _looked into the German's eyes, he _had_, so many times, and he had never seen evil there.

He had only seen himself reflected in those pale eyes.

Lost. Scared. Alone. Hopeless.

_Helpless_.

Only himself.

He wanted to say it.

"Oh, Alfred. Don't let 'em pull you in. They lie, they all do. Don't turn your back on him, don't ever. He'll get you, in the end... Don't ever turn your back on him."

But his words were lost as his father collapsed backwards against the couch, and Alfred fell back too, his back against the television stand, and as his father slipped into unconsciousness, he could only reach up, and clench his fingers in his hair.

In the end...

_He _was a coward.

So many scenarios he had played out in his head, and yet when he was finally face to face with his father, when he was given the perfect opportunity to raise his voice in protest, he had choked, like he always did, and let himself get swept out into the tide.

He didn't even try to swim.

And if he had been brave, like the German was brave, he would have said that it takes a real hero to release a fallen enemy, and it took real courage to hold on to humanity in the rages of war, and that evil was only what you made it to be, and that you could win every medal there was and _still _be a coward because you had given in to the dark, and that heroes and evil walked a fine line that sometimes blurred, and sometimes you could spend so much time hating genuinely evil people that you just wound up _becoming _them...

Was his father any better than an SS officer watching over the massacre in Auschwitz?

His father, who had murdered an innocent civilian just because of his ethnicity?

They didn't sound any different, and yet one was evil and one was a hero...

He wanted to say it.

But he couldn't ever find his voice.

He only sat there, as the sun rose higher and higher, and stared at the floor, knees pulled up to his chest.

He hated himself.

It was easy to stand up for the German against the others. But he still couldn't do it against his father.

Oh, God...

What was wrong with him?

He was no better...

Coward.

He was no better.

He didn't leave the house that day; he was too ashamed.

It was his punishment, to sit there with his father until he finally rolled over and came back into consciousness hours later. It was his burden, to reach down and grab his father's arm and pull him up to his feet. It was his penalty, to sit and stare unseeing at the television later as his father picked up the phone in the kitchen and chatted away to his friends, so casually.

He deserved it.

He had let himself down, worse than his father ever had.

He had stayed silent.

...Matthew had been _so _proud.

The evening set in, the sun began to lower, and then suddenly his father stood before him, blocking the light of the television, just as he had done earlier in the dawn's first light.

"Hey, you gonna come help me make dinner?"

Alfred barely heard his father's voice through the white noise in his head.

"Alfred?"

"Sure," he muttered, emotionlessly, and his father shifted his weight.

"I got the grill goin' out back... You want the kitchen?"

He shrugged, noncommittally, and his father cleared his throat.

The air was tense.

"Alfred?"

And when he finally looked up and met his father's eyes, there was something strange there.

Almost like his father was anxious. Apprehensive.

"Alfred," he began, as Alfred quickly averted his gaze and stared straight through him towards the television, feigning deafness, "Look, I know you've been actin' out lately. I don't know _why_—"

Acting out. Saving a life was just acting out.

Ha.

"—and I don't know why you're doin' what you are, but damn... I know you're only doing it to piss me off. Like I said, I don't know why. I guess all boys like to have it out with their old men every once in a while, but I think it's startin' to go too far. I think it's time you settled down, and got all of this nonsense out of your head, so you'll stop embarrassin' the both of us."

He was an embarrassment, was he?

That was alright. He would rather be the embarrassment of the family than the champion.

"Anyway," his father continued, sternly, "I'm having the Kirklands over for dinner. You need to settle down, and that girl is as good as any. And who knows, maybe she can reel you in a little bit. You're gettin' out of control. It's a good match with her. Her father was in the RAF back in the day, you know. They've got money, too, so it won't be so hard, for you two to get a house somewhere. Settle down. I'm sure that we can all come to an arrangement."

An arrangement...

He almost shuddered at the thought, and it was with narrowed eyes that he crossed his arms and scoffed, bitterly, "Do what you want. See what I care."

And for a moment, with the disrespectful tone lingering in the air, his father's fist contracted at his side. Alfred tensed mechanically, but in the end, his father only sighed and stalked off, and he could hear the back door slam.

He only sat there.

...great. His father had found another way to domineer his life.

An arrangement.

Let his father do what he would. But he would take out that gun that he taken from that little Mafioso and put it to his head before he stood in the chapel of a church with Alice at his side.

Oh, God, how much longer could he bring himself to endure this?

Suddenly swallowing his pride and running away into the streets didn't seem so bad.

Pulling himself to his feet, he passed mindlessly into the kitchen, and as he shuffled about this way and that, chopping potatoes and tossing vegetables into pots, all he could see was the German, and that look in his eyes when Alfred had hauled him to his feet.

He had just gone and let him down again.

And the gates stood as wide open as they ever had.

Out in space and disheartened, fulfilling his kitchen duties with mechanical movements, he did not notice the passage of time, and barely heard the ringing of the doorbell, as he tapped his fingers on the counter distantly.

He came back down to earth when his father was suddenly behind him, shoving at his back.

"Hey! Are you gonna answer the door or what?"

Grumbling a response, he furrowed his brow and trudged to the door, and for a moment, as he stood before it, he hesitated, staring at it with slumped shoulders and a sense of despair.

He didn't want to open it. He did not want to go through this terrible awkwardness.

He was sick of pretending.

But the doorbell rang again, and his father screeched his name from the kitchen, and with one deep breath, he reached out, and opened the door.

"Good evening!" came two simultaneous, polite greetings, and he only stood there, staring out at them.

He opened his mouth, and lost his voice.

Alice was smiling widely, hands clasped before her stomach and watching him.

She was always _watching _him.

"Hey, there, Arthur," his father cried from the kitchen, and Alice's father gave a tiny wave from the door, where they still stood, because Alfred was too dumb and numb to move and let them pass.

Alice didn't seem to mind standing before him, and when she really noticed his appearance, she clicked her tongue and lowered her brow in what could have been concern.

"Oh, Alfred," she crooned, in that airy, haughty voice, as she stepped forward, reaching out, "Look at your eye! Oh dear."

She ran slender fingers down his cheek, and he flinched back from her, as his dad barked from behind (when had he come up behind him?), "Yeah, he's a ruffian, you know. Always causin' trouble."

And he flinched again, as Alice's eyes lit up and her smile turned into something like a leer, because somehow he suspected that she _liked _men that caused trouble, and oh, God...

How embarrassing.

"Come in," he finally grumbled, politely, when his father dug an elbow into his back, and he held open the door.

They passed, and her eyes followed him as she went by, and for a horrible moment he wanted nothing more than to dart right out the door before they could stop him.

But he didn't.

He didn't know why.

Instead, he followed behind them, and everything seemed foggy and dull as he sat down clumsily at the kitchen table, staring blankly ahead as Alice stared at him from the side.

Always watching him.

He had thought he had left Alice behind the day he had graduated. How could he have ever known that she would still pop up into his life every so often, and always with that look in her eyes, and a quiet determination in her voice?

She was almost inescapable.

And now it would be worse than ever before.

His father had never understood his reluctance to initiate a romance with her.

He glanced at her, and nearly shuddered.

Alice, always the lady, was groomed immaculately, nails clipped and clean, fresh-faced and very lightly rouged, golden hair freshly razored above her shoulders (she had always preferred to be edgy and different, and had never worn her hair up the popular beehives and poodle cuts of the other girls), beads of pearls around her neck, and wearing a pale green, high-collared dress that perfectly matched her eyes.

She was pretty—maybe cute was a better word—there was no denying that, but...

But she was so...

So...

Weird. _Boring_.

She lived half of her life up in her head, and God almighty, she was just _so _boring that Alfred couldn't even be around her without having to prop his head up in his chin and fight off the urge to yawn. And on the odd occasion that she wasn't sucking the life out of him, she was creeping him out.

Like now.

Now here they all were, at the dinner table, and Alice was sitting so primly, her hands tucked politely in her lap, and she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. _Always _watching him.

He suddenly wanted to scream.

She smiled at him.

He cleared his throat, scratching his collar awkwardly, and tried to keep his eyes everywhere _but _her, because God knew she didn't need any more encouragement.

They ate in relative silence, and every so often Alice would look up and send him a random compliment on the quality of his cooking, and he only stared at her until his father would clear his throat, and then he would grumble a weak thanks.

He picked at his food, not in the least bit hungry, and let his mind wander as his father chatted with Alice's amicably.

Alice would reach out for salt or pepper, and would brush his hand lightly.

He barely noticed.

Alice's eyes were the color of grass. The German's eyes were the color of the sky.

Grass came and went, and died in winter, and fell to cities. The sky was constant.

Endless.

He would rather that the German watched him than Alice, if only because somehow that intense, icy gaze felt a little less overwhelming. Less disconcerting.

Alice knew where he lived. That was why she showed her face so frequently.

He knew where the German lived. Why couldn't he do the same? Just show up...

Unannounced. Would he ever have the German over for dinner?

Like normal people.

He frowned as his fork tapped into his plate, and glanced up at his father, who was babbling away.

A German over for dinner? Over his father's dead body.

He pushed the thought from his head, and heaved a sigh. Alice turned her head to him now, and leaned forward, whispering gently, "You look tired, Alfred."

...he _was _tired.

"I'm fine," he grunted, and she reached out, placing her elegant hand over his own.

He froze up, and he would have pulled away if Alice's father hadn't looked over then, and broke into a sunny smile. And then he leaned into Alfred's father, and they began to whisper fervently to each other, and God almighty, could there have been _anything _worse?

He could not bear to see them there, deciding his future for him.

He wanted to wrench his hand away and say, loudly, 'Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not looking for a long-term relationship,' and the matter would be settled, but when his father's eyes continued to fall on him, he only furrowed his brow and stared down at the table.

It was strange, almost, how he had held the German at his side, grabbed his arm, walked at his side of his own volition, and yet one brush from Alice made him want to turn tail and flee.

Overwhelmed and feeling suddenly claustrophobic, he pushed back from the table and stood up, saying, lowly, "Excuse me. I've gotta go get some air."

And to his chagrin, Alice leapt up with him, and cried, "That sounds lovely! Daddy, you just carry on. I'm gonna go walk with Alfred for a bit."

"Alright, dear," was the fond reply, and Alfred's father smiled too, and his fingers contracted in the table cloth as she reached over and placed her palm on his arm.

Well. That backfired.

Irritated and aggressive, he reached out and grabbed her hand, roughly, and yanked her unceremoniously to the door, gritting his teeth as he growled, "Come on, _dear_."

His head felt like it would explode.

He pushed the door open so hard that it banged against the brick outside, and as soon as he had dragged her down the stairs and into the streets, he released his grip and whirled around and stalked off, having every intention of leaving her in his dust as he roamed the streets to cool off.

She had other ideas.

"Alfred! Where are you going?"

She followed behind him, pulling up the hem of her dress in her hands so that she could match his furious pace, and he could hear her heels clicking on the pavement.

He hated her persistence.

"Alfred, slow down!"

He hated her relentlessness.

"Oh, look, I'm going to get my shoes dirty!"

He hated her haughtiness.

"Alfred! Are you listening?"

And by God, he hated the way she said his name, too.

_Owl_-fred.

He continued to ignore her as she followed behind, but somehow, who knew how, she finally caught up to him, and grabbed up his arm. He glowered down at her, and tried to shake her off.

But her grip was strong.

She was still smiling.

"Get _away _from me!" he snarled, shrilly, as he tried in vain to wrench his arm away, but she held fast, like a horrible vice, and he was reluctant to pull any harder for fear she would stumble and fall. She was still a girl, after all, and he didn't want to hurt her.

No matter how annoying she was.

A silence, and she smiled up at him, almost smugly. As though she knew that she would always win, in the end.

He bowed his head, and sighed.

"Let's go for a walk."

He was stuck.

Keeping his eyes on the ground, he trudged along through the dirty snow that was left from the night before, and Alice walked cheerfully at his side, speaking eagerly away to him about who knew what.

He was not listening. He didn't even know where he was going.

The sun was ready to set, glowing a vibrant red low on the horizon. The clouds were pink and purple overhead, and it would have been worthy of gazing at, if he had been in the mood for it.

"You've been so quiet lately, Alfred! It's not like you. I'm worried about you."

Worried?

Alice rarely seemed worried. Maybe it was sincere concern, because he knew (even though he hated admitting it) that she really _did _care about him, whatever else he could say about her, but the feeling just wasn't mutual.

She had just never managed to snag his attention.

"I can tell, you know, when you're worried. I know everything about you."

She wasn't interesting enough, and she could be as abrasive as he was at times, and very crass. Their personalities clashed too awkwardly.

"Don't worry Alfred, things will start getting better soon, now that our fathers are talking things over. Oh, I'm so happy, you don't even know. Can't you just imagine the future? Everything is going to turn out just as I had imagined it would!"

She tittered to herself, her grip upon him arm tightening, and he felt a horrible squirming in the pit of his stomach when he tried to imagine what was going on inside of her head. She was imagining a grand house, no doubt, with a green yard and white picket fence, and surely she was imagining restless children running around this way and that as he struggled to gather them up, and she would only stand there and laugh as he grabbed one only to have another slip away, and they would live the rest of their lives in a daze of monotony and crushing normalcy, and there would never be any excitement, and she would chide him and always speak to him as though he were inferior in some way, and he would just sit there and take it because society said that he couldn't _leave _her—

Never.

He didn't want what she wanted. He didn't want to be tied down for eternity to someone he could not love. To someone that he couldn't even relate to. To someone he could not be himself around.

She wasn't a bad person. And there probably wasn't anything wrong with her. There were many men who were interested in Alice.

There wasn't anything wrong with her.

She had just never held his interest.

Not like...

They approached a crosswalk.

A flash of gold in the setting sun.

He looked up, instinctively, and froze in his tracks.

There was another pair waiting for the light to change, and, just like him, a man stood there with a pretty brunette girl clinging to his arm, tugging him as enthusiastically as Alice was tugging him, pressed against each other and silent.

And even though their backs were to him, he _knew _it was him.

He knew it.

The German.

He could only stand there, stuck to the spot, because part of him wanted to rush forward and touch the German's shoulder and ask him how he was feeling and if he could walk alright and that it was too soon to be out of the house and that he should be resting and that he was _sorry _for being such an idiot, but at the same time...

Evil.

He was too ashamed to move, because he could hear his father's voice in his head, and he had let his father say those horrible things without distancing himself from them.

There was no way the German would know, of course, but even so...

He had sworn he would not do this anymore. He had stayed silent.

As though sensing he were being watched, the German shifted his weight restlessly, and then looked carefully over his shoulder. There was something that looked like trepidation on his face, and maybe guilt, as though he were doing something he should not, but when he met Alfred's eyes, the look faded into something that could have been relief.

As if, perhaps, thinking to himself, 'Oh, it's just him.'

Then he turned back around, and straightened his shoulders, and stood there as if nothing was out of the ordinary. The girl on his arm looked back too, curiously, and when she saw Alfred staring, she grinned shyly and buried her face in the sleeve of the German's coat in embarrassment.

Hardly an intimidating pair.

Alice was scarier.

Finding his nerve, and encouraged by the lack of a dirty glare or a frown, Alfred took a great breath, and found his feet. His heart was racing so terribly that he was afraid he would faint, but he held his chin up high nonetheless, as he took a bold step forward, and fell in beside the pair.

The cars passed.

They did not look at each other, keeping their gazes straight ahead, but he could feel from the air alone that they were fully aware and alert of each other. And when he finally dared himself to glance over, he felt suddenly abashed.

The German stood there, straight and tall and looking completely dignified, despite the bruises and cuts that were visible, and even though his chest must have hurt like hell, he never flinched, even as the girl at his side gripped and tugged and jostled him. That girl that he had seen somewhere, even if he could not quite place it, and it was obvious from the look upon his face that she had dragged him out here against his will, and yet he stood there patiently nonetheless, and let her do as she would. He was pale and looked more fragile than Alfred had ever seen him in the past, as though he had been struggling through some great crisis, but still his chin was up.

His hair and eyes were glowing orange as the setting sun caught them.

Evil...

Evil?

He almost bowed in head in shame, and he wished that he could just make his father _see_...

That this man, standing here so calmly and proudly, quiet and tranquil and accepting, could never be anything like evil. This was not the solider that his father saw in his head, in uniform and covered in dirt and screaming with rifle in hand. This was not something to fear and revile.

There was nothing evil here. If only he could make his father see.

The girl kept peeking at him from behind her human shield, and Alfred tried to gather himself. Alice was tightening the grip on his arm as the other girl stared at him, and when she finally ducked out her head and chirped, shyly and awkwardly, "Hello!", Alice was squeezing him so fiercely that he was afraid his bone would snap in two.

Before he could sputter a response, the German had lowered his head down and whispered, lowly, "I don't want you to talk to him."

He felt that cold dread within him, but when the German straightened back up, there was no malice upon his face. The German glanced over and caught his eye, and there was no hatred there, either. Only calm, and maybe resignation.

It was encouraging.

He found his voice.

"What are you doing?" he finally managed, and his voice was sure and strong despite the lurching of his heart.

For a second, there was no movement, as the girl peered around the German's arm and as Alice peered too, and then the German shrugged a shoulder, nonchalantly.

"Waiting for the light to change," he said, voice deep and low and unconcerned, and Alfred could not help but smile.

"Yeah. Me too."

They fell silent, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Alice leaning forward, observing the other two with an extremely critical eye. Alice, so high-class and well-bred and haughty, and when she caught the eye of the girl clinging to the German's arm, she looked her up and down so intensely that the brunette flushed a deep red and reburied her face in the German's sleeve. The German looked over and glowered down at Alice in annoyance, and she straightened up quickly, looking alarmed under his intense eyes. Alfred would have smiled if he hadn't felt so sick (because he knew what it felt like to be caught under that gaze) and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed just to keep his chin up, as his father's terrible words rang in his ears.

How could he stand here beside him now, when he had sat there in silence as his father had sought to regain control of him? It didn't feel right.

Alice's father had probably fed her the same hatred.

"Alfred," she suddenly hissed in his ear, "Do you _know _them?"

Her hiss was not as subtle as it should have been, as if _knowing _them would be something _ghastly_, and he could sense the German stiffening beside him, and knew that he was being judged on his response.

Here was a chance, however small, for redemption.

One way or another.

It was with a strange, malicious irritation towards Alice that he drawled, slyly, "Oh, _yeah_! Yeah, yeah, we—we've known each other since _way _back." As an afterthought, he added, "I thought you knew everything about me?"

For a second, she foundered, and then she only gave a thin, "Ah!" and fell still. He glanced over, and there was something unusual swirling through the German's icy blue eyes, as he stared straight ahead and shifted his weight this way and that.

Exactly _what_, he couldn't say, but it was _something_.

Alfred's confidence was given a boost. Maybe things weren't as bad as he had imagined.

He had almost forgotten Alice at his side.

Maybe Matthew was right, after all.

He smiled at the other girl, and it was with a much surer voice that he said to her, "Hey! Thanks for getting him out for once."

She peeked out at him, and now she was smiling, eagerly, and the German sent him a narrow-eyed look that might have said something to the effect of, 'please don't encourage her.'

He did the opposite. He never did listen very well.

"Say! You should bring him out more often."

Now the German met his eyes, and behind the annoyance and intimidating sternness, there was something else, almost like curiosity.

Almost like some kind of fascination, as though he could not believe that he had found himself standing here, at this light, saddled in between Alfred and these two women. As though it had never even crossed his mind that this would one day be an occurrence.

Alfred would not have blamed him if he had suddenly turned on his heel at any point and stalked off, but he never did, and only stood there, with a silent patience that was almost inhuman, as the brunette clenched his arm and bounced on her heels, smiling brightly at Alfred now that he had spoken to her. Forgetting the German's request, she crooned, in a loud, accented voice, "I know! He never wants to come out anymore! He used to go out with me all the time!"

She was tugging his arm relentlessly and fervently, and the German only stared ahead, and gave a soft sigh that was barely noticeable. "I don't want you to talk to him, remember?"

So patient.

The girl gave an exaggerated gasp and covered her hand with her mouth, and then sent Alfred a strange look, almost as if she was accusing him of tricking her somehow.

He shrugged a shoulder and, to his dismay, the light changed, and the street came back to life as people passed quickly.

A movement at his side.

His heart sank. He had not wanted this moment to end.

He felt so much better...

The guilt from the morning was ever dissipating, but if the German left, then he was tossed back in the dark of his own mind, and left alone with Alice.

"Hey," he called without thinking, as the German began to stride forward with wide steps.

He had thought he would have more time.

He waited.

He could feel the horrible anxiety in his chest, but the German finally paused in his tracks, and even though he didn't look back, Alfred understood that he was listening. A deep breath to steady himself, and Alfred said, as coolly as possible, "I never did catch your name."

They stood still, as the other people crossing passed them by, and then the German reached up, waving his hand in the air carelessly as he rumbled, smoothly, "I didn't give it."

...right.

"Maybe next time," Alfred called, expectantly, and the German shrugged a shoulder.

"Who can say...?" was the enigmatic response, and Alfred could only put his hand on his hip and shake his head to himself.

Stubborn bastard.

Clenching his fist enthusiastically, he braced his feet and cried, "Next time! For sure."

A silence, and then the German snorted and walked on, head held high, and Alfred walked too, as Alice tugged him along. And this time, he let her lead him where she would, because suddenly he was walking on the clouds rather than snow, and he barely even noticed that she was there.

Next time.

The German was lost in the crowd, and that was alright, too, because they had spoken. Not a conversation, not by any means, but just a few words. Like normal people. Like people who had never had the gates stand wide open before them.

Maybe...

Just words.

It wasn't what he had hoped for, but it was more than he had expected. They would not seek out to hate each other anymore. That was enough.

Maybe Alfred had proven himself. Or maybe the German was just too forgiving, in the end. Maybe a little bit of both.

Alfred wasn't a saint. The German wasn't evil.

His father be damned; he could decide for himself who kept his company.

Every time got a little better.

Next time.

They weren't friends, not by any means, but they weren't enemies anymore.

Next time.

...the German's pretty eyes glowed orange in the setting sun.

The horizon was suddenly not so dark.


	9. Lagunen-Walzer

**A/N : **A great song to listen to for this chapter : Youtube / watch?v=Y3xBLGrRSqk

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

**Lagunen-Walzer**

Christmas

It was almost Christmas. Another week until the most anticipated holiday of the year, and then another week and the changing of the year would be upon them.

He was glad for it. What a _miserable _year it had been.

The worst of all the long, drawn-out years that he had been here, by far. He would not miss it when it fled, nor would he look back upon it, and if there really _was _a God, somewhere up above, then he would either bestow him with a better path ahead or give him the strength to end it before it became all the worse.

The slope had become so steep.

_Surely_ there was nowhere to go but up.

He tried to be optimistic, but in all reality, Ludwig considered it a fair toss-up between two drastically different outcomes. It could go either way. Why pretend that nothing else could go wrong? Why sugarcoat everything?

He would not hold his breath.

The days were growing shorter. Colder.

The new year would tell.

But that road ahead had yet to be seen, too distant and too foggy, and for now, he could only cling on to the frail survival instinct within him that had kept him alive this long and try to put his best foot forward in the face of absolute misery.

Never say die.

And even though he forced himself out of bed in the morning despite the gloomy part of him that said not to, even though he pulled on a brave face and did not hang his head, this determination to push forward through the darkness had not been born completely from his own mind and heart, and he would be the first to admit (at least to himself) that it had been the strength of others that had given him the will to do so.

Others.

Of course for others. Why would he ever even bother to lift his head from the pillow if it there had not been anyone urging him to?

Someone like Antonio, always at his side and always concerned, ready to reach out and take upon himself the weight of Ludwig's troubles if he ever needed a moment to stop and breathe, without ever asking for anything in return, and always quick to point out to him that he had a friend who would go to hell and back for him.

Even someone like ditzy, carefree Felicia, so eager to see him and take his hand when she could and to offer to him the words of affection and admiration that he had been missing for many years since his mother had gone, and who had been coming around so frequently (despite her brother's warnings) that Ludwig could not help but wonder if Antonio had had something to do with it. If so, it didn't matter so much.

They kept his head above the water. To remind him that there was someone out there who would _miss _him if he just gave up.

And that was why he had to keep standing.

For others.

For Antonio, whom he owed. He kept pushing onward through the night for Antonio.

Or, at any rate, that was the explanation that he repeated over and over to himself, no matter how many times necessary, and whenever _that _thought tried to slither into his mind, he quickly shot it down.

Maybe too fervently.

Because he did not want to think that maybe there was someone else out there who was pushing him on through the dark. He found himself engaged quite frequently in mental arguments with himself.

Someone else.

Someone _else_?

...nope.

No? Really?

Nope.

Gunned down. Moving on.

These little spats with his own damn mind were becoming more frequent, and he concluded (somewhat tentatively) that it was just because he was in the middle of a shakeup and wobbling around through such an unstable environment.

When things changed, it was only natural to feel a bit agitated.

And change was something that he was sick of.

He had weathered these weeks of uncertainty, and put up with Antonio hovering over him every second and fussing about him and all but shoveling food down his throat. Not exactly necessary. He found that he had been eating on his own lately. Maybe for someone else.

Appetite aside, Antonio had nitpicked over other aspects, asking him every few hours of every day how he was feeling. His response never changed.

'Alright.'

The stitches in his scalp had completed their goal a week ago, and it had been Antonio, with that sometimes overwhelming protectiveness, that had pushed him down onto the sofa and gently pulled the threads out. And it had been Antonio that had poked intrusive fingers into his chest and prodded his ribs with a critical eye, and no matter how many times Antonio asked, 'How does that feel?' his answer never changed.

'Alright.'

Everything was just 'alright'.

But that seemed to satisfy Antonio.

Antonio never asked exactly _how _Ludwig had acquired his injuries, and Ludwig suspected that he really didn't want to know anyhow. Ludwig would not have told him the truth at any rate, even if he had asked. He could not admit to Antonio that it had been entirely intentional on his part.

Antonio would be disappointed.

Antonio did not deserve to be brought down by his gloominess, and Ludwig made an effort to at least pretend that he was feeling better.

Even if he wasn't.

Antonio smiled at him and nodded his head, but he wasn't stupid—Antonio didn't believe him. It was obvious by the way that he had all but moved in. Ludwig could barely even remember the last time he had come down the stairs and _not _seen Antonio bustling in the kitchen or asleep on the couch, and Ludwig was _grateful _for it, because when the owner of the bakery had called him back those weeks ago and said that his daughters had taken so well to working with him that he just didn't _need _Ludwig anymore ('Sorry! Nothin' personal, if you ever need some references God knows I'll tell 'em nothin' but the best!'), it had been only Antonio's presence there that had prevented him from sinking down against the wall and just crying.

Antonio just patted him on the shoulder, and said, 'So what? There are other jobs.'

Easier said than done. After five years there, the thought of change was frightening.

Change. He could not bear change.

He felt sick at heart.

Nevertheless, he had put on that same old mask of impassiveness the next day, and swallowed his pride, pulling on the best clothes he had and walking out into the European block with a sense of dread.

His funds were dwindling.

It was no easy task to go _begging_, not for someone like him, to whom pride was really all there was left, but what else could he do?

Sometimes, you just couldn't do everything alone. Sometimes, help was necessary.

And that was why he had stopped before the door of the little German store that had been on the corner years before he had ever been here, and probably years before he had even been born, and after a moment of deep breathing and gathering up his dignity, he lifted his chin and pushed through the door.

He was not there to shop, and when the owner tossed at him that friendly old greeting that he always sent him ('Hey, Lutz, married yet?'), Ludwig only gave a weak smile, and fell still in the middle of the floor in a moment of apprehension and nervousness.

He didn't want to ask.

Not to this man, grey-haired and strongly built and rather gruff, who had come here as soon as the first great war had ended with his wife, and who had settled down on his own two feet and had done everything by himself, even opening his own store despite living in this country when the feelings of aggression had burned a thousand times stronger than they were now.

Ludwig felt embarrassed even standing here before him just _knowing _that he was going to ask.

A strong youth in the prime of life, asking an elder for help.

Shameful.

Perhaps sensing his worry and no doubt seeing the persistent shuffling of his feet, the owner rested his chin in his palm, elbow settled on the counter above the cash register, and sent him a strange smile.

"What's up? You look like you've gone and broke something!"

His pale smile waned a bit.

"Ah. It's just! I just wanted to..."

"Yeah?"

He trailed off, caught under the elder man's expectant stare, and then finally he blew air through his teeth and muttered, lowly, "You don't need any help around here, do you, Rudolf?"

A silence.

He expected questions. But there were none.

Maybe the old man could just see how down and out he was, maybe he could see the desperation within him, or maybe he could see how much it _hurt _to have to ask at all.

Whatever it was, he saw _something_, and after a moment of observing Ludwig up and down, he removed his elbow from the counter and dropped his arms at his side, and finally said, after a drawn out silence, "Well. Hope you can start tomorrow."

Ludwig stood frozen in place, and then he relaxed in a flood of relief.

Oh, thank God!

It was not ever what he had wanted to happen, to lean upon good, stable people like a crutch, but he had no choice, and he would do everything he could to make sure that their kindness was repaid when he was steady again, and then some.

"Thanks," he began, earnestly, "So much, I'm really—"

"Don't mention it," came the swift interruption, and the old man sent him a stern, if not fond, look, and added, "Ten o'clock, Lutz."

He nodded his head, and swiftly retreated, feeling lighter and somewhat jittery as the adrenaline of anxiety slowly faded.

He returned home with a high chin.

Antonio had only said, 'See? Everything always works out alright.'

How could he know that? It had just been a lucky break. Who could have known? Antonio's optimism and bright attitude baffled him.

But it didn't matter.

The next day, he had another reason to pull himself from bed in the morning, and looked forward to making himself useful, if only a little. The heaviness in his chest was ever so slowly lifting. His head didn't hurt as much as it had. It wasn't so hard to get out of bed in the morning.

Not when he had somewhere to be.

A job, even if it wasn't under any circumstances that he had ever wanted. In this little shop, here at the mercy of others.

It was a blessing.

It wasn't like he was _really _needed, not really, and it was understood on all parts that he would only hang around until he had found a permanent solution, but he was too proud to seek a loan and everyone knew it, and besides, Germans were supposed to look out for the other Germans. That was just how it was. The Italians kept watch over the other Italians, the Scots supported the Scots, the Poles helped the Poles and the Slavs stuck up for Slavs.

The Germans would look out for him, now, in his time of need, and spare his pride.

Immigrants _had _to have a support system in order to thrive. No one could do it on their own. Not alone.

And now it was almost Christmas, and even though he had not found another place to work, he could not keep that strange little twinge of something that almost felt like hope from within his chest. Not really hope. Not yet. Just a sort of paper-thin faith, that maybe something would work out for him.

One of these days. Next time, maybe.

It was nice here. Quiet. Calm. Friendly.

Working here was pleasant, surrounded on all sides by familiar commodities and seeing people that he actually knew, if only by sight and name. Pleasant and yet somehow heartbreaking, and _God_, how looking at the pretty packages of wrapped Stollen and the skillfully spun Baumkuchen and the intricate gingerbread houses made him so _homesick_.

Homesick.

He missed his home.

Sometimes that old opera aria played on the radio, in those rare, calm moments when the wife had control of the tuning button.

_'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,_

_Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! Home!_

_Sweet, sweet home..._

The longing was unbearable.

Miserable.

Hearing the owner and his wife laughing in the kitchen as they stood over the hot fire, ladling batter upon a scorching roller and sounding so _happy_—and why wouldn't they be? They had each other here, family and friends and a shop and a stable home—and he just stood out front, listening to them crooning to each other and feeling dejected as he stared down at the counter and remembered things that would have been best left forgotten.

Remember.

He remembered holding his brother's hand and passing through the bustling streets that wonderful Christmas, and dragging them both to a stop at every bakery so that he could gawk at the cakes within, and he had stated, quite ambitiously, that he would master the art of making Baumkuchen, and his brother had only tossed back his head and laughed, chiding him for being silly.

_You sound like a girl! _

And yet, even so...

Even so, his brother had gone out the next day and spent hours with a hammer and saw, creating a surprisingly efficient spit, even if they had used it as nothing more than a fancy base when playing a game of tag. And when his brother was gone, even all those years later, he would sit outside and stare at it, too disheartened to ever even attempt to use it.

Thinking about it...

He had been heartsick then. He was homesick now.

Where had that dream gone? So badly he had wanted to do it, and yet now he couldn't even bring himself to just step inside the kitchen and ask them to teach him. That was all he had to do. Just ask.

He couldn't.

That desire had died along with his brother.

Too many memories attached to these simple things...

Little things that were just normal to other people. Ordinary things.

The smell of the gingerbread and the cakes and the coffee and the little packages of spices just waiting to be used in a Feuerzangenbowle, the old festive music that played from the radio in the back, the advent calendar on the wall that was marked dutifully every day by the wife (her hand gliding as smoothly as his mother's had), the lights strung up in every corner and glowing out white and gold, oh _God_.

He was so homesick that he could have just bent over and vomited or, at the very least, sniveled in his sleeve miserably, but he did neither, and even though his heart ached so that it hurt to breathe, he stood dutifully behind the counter, greeting anyone who came in, even if his throat clutched in doing so or if he felt a wave of chill and cold sweat as his stomach threatened to turn against him.

Push forward.

At least he _could _stand here.

A glimmer of dawn far on the horizon, breaking through the night. Once he got back on his feet, once he found a new job, he could try to glue the pieces back together. Save money. Pay Antonio. Gather up his pride.

Carry on.

And then there was still someone else to pay, if more by perseverance than monetarily. Even if it left a horribly bitter taste in his mouth to admit it.

Someone else.

_Him_.

Ha. Yeah, _him_.

He seemed to be everywhere now, in these past few weeks. Everywhere. It was almost _eerie_, actually, how Ludwig could scarcely turn his head without seeing _him_.

Alfred.

What had happened on that snowy night? What had shifted so drastically?

Because it was just...

Surreal.

Every time he went out. Every time he looked over his shoulder. Every time he went grocery shopping. Every time he stopped at an intersection. Like clockwork. And every time, Alfred would saddle up next to him with surprisingly stealthy movements for one so clumsy, and always the same question.

'It's next time! So, what's your name?'

_Surreal._

He neatly deflected every attempt with another evasive, 'next time', even though the next time, he knew he would just say, 'next time' once again, and the time after that too, and sometimes he wondered if he would ever gather up the courage to tell Alfred his name.

It wasn't purposeful teasing or even just spite, and he didn't know _why _it was so hard to just answer the damn question, but every time Alfred asked, his throat closed up and he couldn't seem to speak. What harm could it do, to tell Alfred his name?

None, that he could foresee.

But he couldn't do it. Too personal. He was not ready to be so intimate with Alfred, and the thought of hearing his own name pronounced in that loud, confident, arrogant voice was somehow almost _daunting_.

Like if Alfred knew his name, then they would really be linked somehow, and God! The thought of ever being _anything _with _Alfred _was just...

Overwhelming. He wasn't ready for that.

But whatever his reluctances were, Alfred seemed to be leaping over his own hurdles with alarming speed.

How?

Another thing that baffled him. How was Alfred moving forward so quickly?

He was just being left behind, it seemed.

Then again, it was probably easier to leap over hurdles that you had created rather than the ones others stuck in front of you. Alfred knocked down the barricades because he had built them up long ago.

Not so easy for Ludwig.

Alfred had a key.

And sometimes, in the busiest times of the day, when the streets were full of charging pedestrians, a shadow would fall before the glass front of the shop, casting a darkness before the sun. And when Ludwig looked up, someone was standing there, stark still amidst the bustling crowd, an unmoving star against the whirling universe, and from within the blurry hustle, would offer a small wave.

Not really a wave. A weird, lurching of a hand, like he _wanted _to wave but always lost his courage half-way, and it was really just a very rapid hand raising and lowering. An exceedingly awkward, fumbling gesture.

Anyone around him would have thought he was merely swatting away an annoying insect.

But Ludwig knew better.

Golden hair alight in the pale sun. Glasses reflecting like beacons. A guarded, tentative smile. That same old jacket.

Alfred.

It had been bizarre enough to stand next to him those weeks ago at that light, to hear the tremor in his voice that he sought so desperately to hide as he kept himself so straight and stiff as a board that it would not have been particularly surprising if he had just tottered over, and it was almost mind-boggling to see him now, so frequently outside this little shop that he had no business being near.

Five years, and he could have counted on one hand the number of times that Alfred had dared to venture into this side of town.

And yet now, Alfred came nearly every day.

He did not understand. He felt like he was going _crazy_. Maybe he had hurt his head worse than he had first imagined. Just because the stitches were out didn't mean his mind was sound.

Maybe he was hallucinating.

But surely not; because sometimes when Alfred stood there before the window, giving that strange, quirky little wave, the rushing people would bump into him and he would stagger a bit, and yet after catching his balance, he quickly returned to his look-out, and continued to stare.

And that stare always caught him.

Clarity. Intensity. Certainly far too clear and detailed to be a hallucination.

So, then, that meant that this was real.

Real.

What was going _on_? He was so confused.

In God's name, what did Alfred _want _from him? How much clearer did he need to make it that he was _not _interested in holding a conversation with him? He was not interested in seeing him. He was not interested in suffering through nervous, bumbling, lame attempts at compensation.

He was not interested in being the cure to a guilty conscience.

Why couldn't dumb Alfred take the hint?

What else did he have to do? Wear a sign? Get a goddamn tattoo on his forehead that said, 'Stay Away From Me'? What else?

It was like interacting with a brick. A big, dumb brick. Perhaps such a thought, actually, was an offense to bricks, who had never done anything to harm anyone.

Nonetheless, he suffered these annoyances as he felt he was expected to : silently, and with a lifted chin of complete indifference, quickly breaking Alfred's nervous gaze and finding something far more interesting to look at, placing his palms on the counter and straightening his back and trying his best to look absolutely snobby and untouchable, even if he felt the farthest thing from it.

Sometimes, Alfred accepted the rebuttal and fled quickly, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow in the mist.

Sometimes, he accepted the rebuttal more gracefully, and tucked his hands in his pockets and ambled off slowly. Dreamily, and maybe he was whistling to himself.

Alfred just lingered there sometimes, no matter how hard Ludwig tried to ignore him. Staring through the window, arms loose at his sides and looking for all the world as though he just wanted to either burst into tears or collapse.

And it _frightened _Ludwig, because sometimes Alfred looked like he would have given anything to be able to reach through the glass (did he fear so to come near the door?) and to touch, as if somehow reaching out and _touching _would erase all of the history between them and set everything right again, and he just stood there and stared, even though he _knew _that he wasn't supposed to be there.

Alfred wasn't supposed to be here. He did not belong on this side.

Alfred had his own side of town. Why didn't he stay there, where he belonged?

_His _side. Right. They shouldn't have been on each others' sides, and that rather haughty girl that sometimes hung on Alfred's arm—unpleasant, abrasive little witch that she was—was always quick to remind him of it whenever she happened to be around when they met, and the look she sent him was enough to make him feel like he was back in that dreary orphanage all over again.

Looks like _that_.

Condescending and self-righteous and not even realizing it. She probably thought she was smiling prettily instead of sneering. She was probably one of those, 'Oh, you've got to get to know her!' kind of girls.

Looks like that.

Alfred never even looked at _her_, and maybe that was worse. Why bring her along? Why make already awkward interactions a thousand times more unbearable?

Oh, _why _did Alfred make everything so difficult?

It had been so much easier when everything had been black and white. He didn't like fumbling around blindly and stepping in these goddamn puddles of grey.

It had been easier before.

And even though some deep, instinctive part of him wanted to go absolutely berserk whenever he saw Alfred there outside the shop, maybe stomping his feet around a bit before stalking outside and grabbing Alfred by the collar and tossing him back over on the other side of the street where he damn well belonged, he shoved it down and stayed wisely silent, because making such a scene when he had been graced with a position here was no way to show gratitude.

No matter how much he wanted to snipe, he would hold his tongue.

As long as Alfred stayed outside, there was no need for such childish actions.

And today would be no different.

Maybe the Christmas foods and reminders of happy times should have made him more susceptible to approach; less aggressive. But they did just the opposite, and who could ever be friendly when feeling so desperately homesick?

As the morning passed slowly into a pale afternoon, he tidied up various strewn items as he waited for some business.

The grey skies threatened to snow.

People passed by, lost in their own worlds. Where did everyone go all the time? Always bustling. Rushing. What was out there for them?

He could only imagine. He never moved along. Still. In the same place. Stuck in the same ruts.

"Hey, Lutz!"

Starting upright, he turned his head, and barely reacted in time to catch a bag being chucked at his head. Grabbing it and looking down, the owner barked a short laugh, and said, "Thought I'd give ya somethin' to do! Why don't ya set up a gingerbread house on the counter? Make the time go by faster. People don't really come by on days like these."

Pointing up to the grey sky absently, the owner sent him a short smile, and then disappeared into the back, and Ludwig stood there with a furrowed brow, and then looked down dumbly at the bag.

Set up a little house? It had been a long time.

Retreating reluctantly to the counter, he cleared a space, and set the bag down. And then he just stood there, staring down at the bare pieces of gingerbread and prettily-colored candy, and feeling disheartened all over again.

He didn't want to set it up.

...didn't feel like it.

But he would do it nonetheless, because he had been told to, and it was with heavy hands that he opened up the bag and took everything out and set to work, pulling out a piping bag and uncapping a tub of icing.

His house would probably end up being the ugliest one in the store. He had never really been good at such things. Drawing pretty shapes with icing and flattering positions of decorations had never been his forte.

Bracing his feet, he bent down, resting his elbows on the counter, facing the great window, and set to work.

And quickly, he remembered that this wasn't really as easy as it looked, as his walls fell down once or twice before finally staying put. One roof collapse wasn't really so bad, he supposed, although his decorative spirals were certainly lacking in creative flare and maybe style.

He was no artist.

Time passed by, as quickly as the owner had promised, and he was so absorbed in piecing together his little candy house that he didn't even notice when the clock struck five. Tongue sticking out in concentration and praying that the whole damn thing wouldn't just collapse the second he left it, he attempted to create a chimney, and when he had stuffed a great fluffy ball of cotton candy inside of it to serve as smoke, a shadow fell over him.

A shiver. A strange sense of foreboding.

The shadow lingered there, and even though he did not look up, somehow he knew.

Well, here we go again!

Taking a deep breath, he forced his hand steady, and looked up. And what he saw was exactly what he expected.

There he was. Again.

Alfred.

He was standing there, hands tucked in his pockets, and Ludwig froze still, peering out from above the roof of his half-completed house, a piping bag of icing still held in his hand, and for a moment he was too numb to even feel mortified, as Alfred stared him down.

Their eyes met.

What was all of this? Why was he trying so hard? What was the point? None of it would matter, in the end. They could never be friends.

Not friends.

They could never be looked upon as equals. So why was Alfred trying so _hard_?

Standing there, like he always did now, looking somehow hopeful and yet dismal at the same time, and he tried to smile, even if it never reached his eyes, and he just looked something like a shadow. Just a phantom, wandering lost and alone through the streets, with no one really to go to, and that was why he stood here, maybe.

There was no one else to go to. Hadn't he alienated all of his 'friends' in that moment of aggressive bravado weeks ago?

Wandering aimlessly.

Well...

Maybe they could never be friends, but God, Ludwig could understand _that _feeling.

Alfred stood there, shoulders loose and glasses crooked and hair flying all over the place in the wind, standing still and alone as the crowd passed by all around and as the sky above threatened to burst, and for a moment, he tilted his head, like a contemplating dog.

Ludwig felt a bit ill.

Oh, what if he was finally going to come in? He was not ready for that.

They stood still.

Staring. On different sides, like they always were. Always an obstacle between them, whether history or blood or lineage or friends or family or even just this pane of glass.

Something in between.

He had nearly found his nerves, and was just about to abandon the house and turn his back when something drastically different happened.

It hadn't happened before.

Alfred waved at him.

Maybe something had emboldened him, or maybe someone had encouraged him (who would do such a thing?), or maybe he had finally just gathered up his own nerves after so many years, but whatever the reason, the result was the same : the flimsy hand gesture turned into a _real _wave (a real, good old fashioned wave, big and energetic, like the Yanks gave each other sometimes when the weather was temperate and mild and no one was miserable), and then Alfred broke into a wide, sunny smile.

As if everything were right in the world.

_Surreal_.

Alfred stood there, his first real wave obviously considered a great success to him, and he was beaming so brightly and so widely and so _sincerely _that Ludwig found himself unable to look away.

Frozen, like a deer.

Alfred had never smiled at him like that. No one had ever smiled at him like that.

Like he was a long-awaited destination at the end of a very long journey.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Intensity.

Alfred kept smiling, and now even the bustling crowd itself seemed a million miles away, and he felt a horrible squirm in his chest that he couldn't place. An unusual feeling that he couldn't think of a name for.

And then Alfred turned his eyes down, and looked at his candy house, and after a moment of what could have been nostalgia (or maybe longing), Alfred looked back and gave a quirky thumbs up that probably looked more confident than it really was.

A muffled, distant cry of, "Nice!" through the glass and crowd and roaring cars and honking horns.

For a second, everything fell still.

Alfred beamed.

And something strange happened.

A tug in his chest. An almost forgotten sensation upon his face. A twitch of his lips. A passing of _something_.

For an awful moment, he just stood there, leaning above the gingerbread and staring out of the window, and it was horrifying to him how _helpless _he felt, unable to move and caught under Alfred's gaze and dangerously close to losing his composure, although in what way he could not imagine.

Maybe that was the worst part. Not knowing _how _his mask would fall, more so than knowing it _could_.

If he fell apart in a fit of exasperation and annoyance and anger, then that would have been alright. Childish, no doubt, and immature, but alright.

But if what if it was worse? What if he accidentally gave away some kind of insecurity, or some kind of weakness? Something that Alfred might pick up on?

Time froze up.

They stared.

What if he gave away a frailty? What if Alfred saw it and acted upon it? What if he took a step forward and actually tried to come in?

Oh, God. What if Alfred came inside? What would he say? What could he possibly _say_?

Alfred made a movement.

Horror.

And then a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder, and he jumped so hard that he nearly sent his gingerbread house tumbling straight to the floor. A last second hand caught it steady, and when he whirled around, eyes wide and maybe looking guilty, the owner was staring at him.

"Hey, not too bad!"

He stood for a dumb second, mouth hanging open and twitching, and then he shook off the stupor and managed to sputter, awkwardly, "T-thanks!"

"Hell, at least it stayed up! More than I can say for mine. That's why the wife does them all. Oh, hey, here, I got somethin' for you!"

A bag was shoved somewhat forcefully into his free hand.

"Had a lot of extra stuff since today was so slow. Thought you might wanna take these home. Just some bread and cakes. I know you like that stuff."

A hand reached out and pinched his upper arm.

"Better eat it, too! You're gettin' kinda skinny, Lutz. Used to be bigger."

He tucked the bag under his arm and muttered words of gratitude, trying to appear as impassive as possible even as his heart thudded in his chest. A blank smile, and the owner, satisfied, gave him a quick pat on the shoulder and then began his retreat to the back.

"When you're done with that, you can go ahead and go home."

"Alright."

Alone and standing still, he stared ahead, and found that even though he was no longer under threat of being caught doing something he should not, he still could not seem to turn back around.

And why should he?

He was free of Alfred's stare now.

What was the point of turning and putting himself in that vulnerable position again? He could leave Alfred standing there and not feel the least bit guilty about it.

He could.

And yet...

Curiosity.

His curiosity was almost overwhelming, and when his fingers began to twitch, he knew he just couldn't stand there. He had to look. He couldn't help it.

He steadied himself, and braced his feet.

But when he finally took a great breath and dared himself to look over his shoulder, there was nothing. Just the blurry, passing crowd.

Alfred was gone.

He stood there, and for a strange second, he felt a twinge of disappointment. And as soon as he realized it, he shoved it away and furrowed his brow.

...God, what was _that_? Disappointed because Alfred was gone?

Yeah, right. Hardly.

Muttering to himself and feeling exceedingly agitated and fidgety, he abandoned his gingerbread house to the window and took up the bag that had been shoved at him, and with heavy feet, he tromped to the door and called back, "I'm leaving!"

"Alright. See you tomorrow."

With that, he pushed through the door, pausing in the street to look around very thoroughly.

Alfred wasn't there.

Pursing his lips and turning on his heel, Ludwig directed his feet towards home, chin tucked down into his collar and clutching the bag of baked goods to his chest and trying his very best to keep his mind blank.

Alfred's sunny smile kept breaking through the gloom.

And no matter how hard he tried, it just wouldn't go away.

The short walk home seemed much longer as he waged war within his mind, and he was making a very firm point in telling himself every reason imaginable as to why he was right and Alfred was wrong, and why he did not return such smiles and why Alfred was still an enemy.

He was right.

There was no wrong in his continual ignoring of Alfred. No wrong. None of this was his fault.

None of it.

Alfred was only looking to make himself feel better. _He _didn't need to get involved in that. What did _he _care if Alfred assuaged his guilt or not? He was not just some object for Alfred to use as a lifter-upper. He was not a damsel in distress, and he did not need Alfred to come and rescue him.

He didn't.

And he would not give Alfred what he sought. He was not going to let Alfred take his hand or fall to his knees and utter pleas for forgiveness. He would not put his hand upon Alfred's shoulder and say, 'It's alright'. He was not a pill that could be swallowed to get rid of depression. Alfred only wanted to talk to him so that he would feel better about himself.

That's what fuckin' therapists were for.

They were in Manhattan; there had to be a shrink's office every four blocks. Go there.

Alfred could go lay on a couch somewhere and stare at the ceiling and pour his heart out to some man in a coat who scribbled away on a clipboard, and Ludwig could be left in peace.

That was all Alfred wanted. Nothing more.

Alfred didn't care about him. Not really.

It was just like the people that tossed coins into the hats and cans of homeless people huddled against the sides of buildings. They didn't care what happened to them, or how they used that money or if they found food or even if they survived the cold night. It didn't matter; they'd given their two cents, and what a feeling it must have been, to pretend that they had really done some good in the world and that everyone would think better of them for it. And the homeless still sat there and froze even as they told their friends about how sensitive they were for donating.

Dumb Alfred.

He was Alfred's donation.

By God, he would not go down this road. Not like this. He would cling, however desperately and however foolishly, to his shards of pride.

Alfred would never hear those words from him.

'I forgive you.'

Not ever.

Lost in thoughts and in a damp mood, he found himself face to face with his front door, and reached out with clumsy fingers to turn the lock.

At least Alfred hadn't returned here to his home. Jerk had sense enough for that, at least.

Scarcely had he pushed through the door and into the light when he was bombarded by a bouncing Antonio.

"You're back early!" he cried, as he flew up from the couch and literally flipped over the back of it to save himself the time of walking around, and when he was close enough, he placed a warm, heavy hand on Ludwig's shoulder, brow low and eyes worried. "You're early! Are you alright? You didn't feel well? Why don't you go lie down for a little bit? You look a bit pale. I've already started dinner!"

Mouth hanging open and having no opportunity to speak for Antonio's pistol-quick questions, Ludwig could only stand there and let Antonio shake him gently.

"Say! Are you alright, huh?"

Finally, Antonio stopped talking, if only to catch his breath, and Ludwig used the moment of hesitation to say, quickly, "I'm fine. It was slow."

Antonio's face relaxed.

"Oh. I'm glad. You should still lie down, though."

"I'm alright."

"You're always alright," Antonio tossed back, somewhat sternly, but his annoying overbearing was diffused when Ludwig pushed the bag into his hands.

"Here, I brought you a present."

It took only a whiff of bread and cake (long missed since he had left the bakery) to make Antonio forget that he had ever been worried at all, and it as with a bright smile and eager hands that Antonio scampered off into the kitchen, calling back excitedly, "Alright! Best present _ever_!"

Ludwig stood there, his foul mood dissipating with Antonio's cheerfulness. It was hard to stay angry and agitated with Antonio around.

He felt a bit guilty at having given the shop-owner's kind gesture off to Antonio, when it had been meant to perk him up a bit.

Oh well. Antonio's less-than-taut abdomen needed perking as much as the rest. He wasn't hungry now, anyhow.

That stupid grin...

"Come here, Ludwig, have some coffee with me. It's cold out."

Antonio's voice calling out to him, he found his feet moving of their own accord, and it would be nice to sit at the table with Antonio and forget the frustration hanging over him.

Antonio was the only person he would ever sit with. He had no other friends. He would never sit at a table like this with anyone else.

Antonio smiled up at him as he pulled out a chair.

A cheerful, affectionate look of camaraderie, sincere and warm and fond, a look that promised to always enjoy his presence and have his back and talk to him when he needed, a look that promised to always be a friend, to always be there for him. To always feel that bond between friends that was its own version of love.

Antonio always smiled at him.

So it shouldn't have occurred to him at all that Antonio's fond smile was like slipping into a warm, comforting bath; not like looking into the sun. Not on par with that intense, breathless look of longing and aching and indescribable hope for _something _that had lit up Alfred's face.

Antonio's smiles made him feel safe. Secure. Cherished.

But they didn't make the hairs on his arms and neck stand up.

He had never known Alfred could look like that.

Not after so many years of seeing the dark half of him, lost in the sea, maybe, looking perpetually half-hearted and dizzy and lost and out of place. And out of the dark, smiling only in a blankly confident manner, eyes guarded and giving away nothing but arrogance and self-assurance.

Who had known Alfred could smile in such a way?

Antonio saw his strange look, and arched a brow, pushing a mug of coffee beneath him, and asking, hopefully, "Are you hungry?"

He shook his head. Antonio's quirked brow fell.

And as he sat there, stirring his coffee absently and staring off into space, he wondered if Antonio would agree with him about Alfred.

Antonio.

He straightened up, coming out of his daze with a start. Of course. Antonio. Antonio had been here the entire time.

Why didn't he ask Antonio about it? Why didn't he ask for advice? It seemed a bit silly, almost, that he hadn't even considered it before.

A side effect of his pride, no doubt.

What harm would it do, to talk to Antonio? It _hurt _to say such things aloud, sure it did, to _anyone_, even to Antonio, but it was starting to hurt too to stay so silent all the time.

He needed to tell someone. He needed vindication.

Vindication.

Antonio would tell him what he needed to hear. Antonio would assure him that he was right, and Alfred was wrong.

"Say," he finally managed, his voice low and scratchy as his throat threatened to lock up as it often did when he was feeling that terrible anxiety, and Antonio lifted his head.

"Hm?"

For a second, he froze under Antonio's eyes.

...oh, how could he tell Antonio all of this? To admit his weakness and paint with potent detail his moments in disgrace? To admit to Antonio the things that had happened in the dirty streets of the city?

Antonio would think less of him.

"What is it?" Antonio asked, when he said nothing else, and for a moment, Ludwig was mortified that he had even opened his mouth.

Alfred stood there watching, in the street. Never said a word. Just staring...

Could Antonio understand this better than he could?

Antonio could be objective. Distant and observant. Not too close to the situation.

The burning in his chest was just too much; there was no way he could pass the night and keep this to himself.

He had to know.

Finally, his throat opened up, and he said, weakly, "I wanted to tell you something."

"O-_oh_!"

And it was immediate, the brightening of Antonio's eyes, and he leaned forward so quickly and so eagerly that Ludwig would not have been terribly surprised if he had given himself whiplash, nearly knocking over his coffee, and his look clearly said, 'You're _really _gonna talk to me? Really?'

He felt another squirm of guilt.

Antonio deserved more than he gave him. He had done nothing to earn Antonio. All Antonio did for him, and he couldn't even just talk to him.

He was a terrible friend.

Antonio deserved more, so, with one great tensing of his shoulders and a deep breath, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, and told Antonio everything.

Everything. Five years of history pouring out like rain. He told Antonio things he swore to himself he would never tell anyone.

Every word, every action, every look, every spitting declaration of hatred, every reminder that he and his kind (his _kind_! Like they were some kind of virus, unwelcome residents on the earth) were not needed here, or anywhere for that matter, every blow and every kick, and worst of all his own silence and placidity, afraid to lift his hand against them for fear of a worse retaliation, for fear of winding up in a wooden box somewhere, for fear of getting arrested and getting sent back home, a town that he missed but could not bear to be in ever again.

Five years of Alfred.

And now suddenly these months of change.

He told Antonio everything.

Everything he knew about Alfred. Everything he had said, done. Every move he had made. Every look. He told Antonio about that night. And how everything had changed from there. How everything was so different now. How confused he was.

He told Antonio _everything_.

The only detail he omitted, for it all, was the reason _why _he had gone out that night.

He couldn't tell Antonio that. It would have broken his heart.

It must have been hours; by the time he realized he had no more words to speak, his coffee was ice-cold and the sky outside was black.

Antonio had not moved the entire time. He just sat there, leaning forward and holding his mug in his hands, hardly appearing to breathe and just listening.

He didn't speak.

When he had said everything there was to say, Ludwig fell back in his chair, lowering his eyes to the table, and after a hesitation, he asked, mostly to himself, "So, he doesn't really mean it...right?"

Lifting his eyes when Antonio sighed, he could see him staring down into his mug thoughtfully, and Ludwig felt somehow expectant.

Antonio would agree with him.

"Well..."

The vindication that he sought was suddenly denied when Antonio, arms crossed above his chest, shrugged his shoulders up and down uncomfortably, a thoughtful look upon his face, and then he finally said, tentatively, "I don't know, Ludwig. Maybe...maybe you're being a little too hard on him."

A heavy silence. Ludwig felt his ire rise.

"What?" was all he came out with, and Antonio picked up on the anger in his voice, and set his palms upon the table.

"You asked me," he began, sternly. "I told you."

Ludwig fell still.

Yeah, he had asked. He had asked because he had been sure Antonio would back him up.

Not say that.

Too _hard _on him? _He _was being too hard? On Alfred?

Like hell.

But before he could open his mouth to retort vociferously, Antonio could see the brewing of a storm and threw his hands non-combatively in the air, adding quickly, "Listen, I'm just saying! I mean, God knows I wouldn't ever blame you if, you know... If you never forgave him. However! From what you told me, it really sounds like he just wants to put everything in the past. That's what I think, anyway! I don't think it would really hurt anyone if you just talked to him. What harm ever came from talking?"

Ludwig sent him a foul look, but Antonio just smiled.

An offering of wisdom.

"It's better to make friends, Ludwig. Who wants to just fight with someone forever? You're not losing yourself by talking to him. What harm could it do? Maybe he's sick of fighting too."

Ludwig hissed air through his teeth and muttered, irritably, "Someone like that never gets sick of fighting."

Antonio's look was increasingly serious.

"Why would he do all that, Ludwig? Why would he throw away all his friends like that?"

Ludwig had no answer, and stayed silent.

This was so uncomfortable. This wasn't right...

Antonio was making everything all the more complicated.

"I don't trust him," he said, sinking down into his chair and shaking his head and giving in to the dreary gloom that had been threatening to overcome him ever since Alfred had left the store so quickly, and it hurt that he had poured his heart out only to be thrust into the spotlight all the worse.

To have Antonio expect more of him than he had to give.

"I just want him to go away."

Antonio reached out, and placed a hand above his own.

A somber look.

"_Oh_, aren't you sick of feeling so bad all the time? Sometimes, Ludwig, I wonder if you even remember how to smile. I just want you to be happy! Even before, when we first met, you used to smile sometimes, but...I don't think I've ever really seen you happy. You're so quiet. Maybe you two can help each other. I'd like to see you smile again. Just once."

A pressure as Antonio squeezed his hand, firmly.

Ludwig was too disheartened to even respond.

Antonio's hand was warm above his own.

"Think about it, Ludwig. Sometimes you just have trust people. Not everyone's what you think they are. Look at you! You're nothing like _that_, even though they say it. You know how that feels. Maybe you should just give him a chance."

He looked up, sending Antonio a despondent look, and Antonio tried to lighten the air by reaching up and patting his cold cheek gently.

"And hey! If he fucks up, I'll go and show him how I got Luna Lovi to leave you alone, eh?"

He tried to smile. He couldn't.

Antonio gave him a gentle slap on the back nonetheless and pulled himself out his chair, standing and taking Ludwig's arm, muttering, "Come on, it's late. Why don't you go to bed?"

He did, if only because he just didn't know what else to _do_.

Sleep would be best, before his mind imploded in on itself.

Nothing was turning out like he had planned. Now he was more confused than before, and as Antonio led him up the stairs and walked him to the door of his bedroom like a child, he found himself walking along without realizing it.

"Get some sleep. We'll talk about it some more tomorrow, if you want to."

He didn't, but he nodded his head anyway and slipped inside his room without another word.

He lied down, and stared up at the ceiling until he fell asleep, Antonio's suggestions churning in his mind even as he slept.

He dreamt of his father.

And Alfred's.

Soldiers across opposite lines. Those two men could never have reconciled.

So how could he and Alfred?

It seemed impossible. Maybe Antonio's optimism had turned into delusion.

Enemies, destined from birth. How could that path ever change?

They were soldiers too, only fighting a much different war. A war thrown down onto them by their fathers. That didn't seem fair...

The night passed restlessly for him, tossing and turning and waking up in short intervals.

Hours of anxiety and apprehension. Uncertainty.

And when the morning came, he felt more exhausted than he had when he had lied down.

Like he had been awake for weeks.

It was with feet full of lead and a burning headache that he forced himself to crawl out of bed, quite literally, and he could barely seem to drag himself over to his closet just to get dressed.

He didn't want to go back to the shop. He didn't want to see Alfred today. Not after what Antonio had said. He couldn't live up to it.

In a daze and feeling rather numb, he pulled on wrinkled clothes and staggered to the door, far too tired to even attempt to iron them, and giving no effort to comb his hair.

Just dress and go. His body just didn't feel like doing much else.

Creeping down the stairs, taking a care not to awaken the snoring Antonio that was crashed quite contentedly on his couch, a blanket wrapped around him in a protective cocoon, he made for the door, the bright light of morning breaking through the curtains and turning the kitchen a bright white.

He walked past it, heading straight for the door, in no mood to eat and barely remembering to grab his coat on the way out.

He felt dizzy.

Snow was falling outside.

His gait was awkward and unsteady as he ambled through the cold streets, hands tucked in his pockets and keeping his eyes on the ground.

This was the worst headache he'd had in a while.

Alfred's fault, one way or another.

Things had been easier before, when Alfred had been so easy to hate. So simple.

Not anymore.

The shop was upon him quicker than he had expected, and when he pushed through the door, the owner's loud voice was abrasive and painful on his ears.

"Morning!" came the greeting as soon as he entered, and he responded with a weak nod of his head.

He must have looked awful.

"You feelin' alright, Lutz? You don't look so good."

Ludwig shrugged a shoulder, and tried to wave it off, ignoring the awful throbbing behind his forehead.

"I'm alright. Couldn't sleep. I think I'm getting insomnia."

The owner pursed his lips and scratched at his apron, saying, "Oh? I'll have to ask the wife about that. She might know something that'll help you sleep. You worry too much about everything, that's what I think. I'll tell her to find something to relax you with too." He ambled off towards the back, crying loudly, "Hey! Greta! Lemme ask you—"

Ludwig shook his head, taking his coat off and folding it clumsily, placing it beneath the counter as he took his dutiful spot at the register. The sunlight streamed in dusty rays through the window, setting the ornaments on the tiny Christmas tree alight, and he bowed his head, tucking his chin into his collar, and could have quite easily fallen asleep right then and there.

But every time a shadow lingered here and there, he started upright, alarmed.

False alarm. Just a customer.

He put on a polite face and held his chin high, offering a quick greeting and little conversation.

The time passed, blearily.

Antonio's words were heavy on his mind.

The customers wished him a Merry Christmas as they left, and he nodded his head and sent them a smile, however fake.

See? He could smile.

Ridiculous. Of course he remembered how to smile. As if he could forget! It was like riding a bike, wasn't it? Not something that could be forgotten.

Ha. Silly Antonio. He remembered how to smile.

...didn't he?

These fake little twitches of his lips that he tossed out mindlessly...

Those weren't really smiles. But he could give a real one, if he tried. If he really tried, he could.

If he tried.

Yeah.

...why bother?

People smiled when they had reason to. When they had things to look forward to. When they were happy. He couldn't remember the last time he had been happy. Maybe he had been something close to happy when he had walked Blackie in the park.

That was gone.

The exhaustion turned into a nausea of longing.

Feeling so bad all the time...

He didn't bother to smile.

Hours passed, most of it spent staring blankly ahead at the wall and holding a conversation with himself in his head. Antonio and Alfred intruded in on him quite frequently, attention-seekers that they were.

Friends. Enemies. Friends.

Which was Alfred?

He wasn't so sure anymore.

Maybe...

_Give him a chance._

It couldn't happen. Him and Alfred couldn't be friends.

Could they?

The word was strange on his mind.

Friends.

A sudden image in his mind of him and Alfred walking down the streets together, ramming into each other's shoulders every so often as friends did, sniping at each other amicably and telling each other everything and spending the night drinking together and having _fun_, and there was no animosity between them, no more hatred and no more despair, no more being caught helplessly in the swirling tide, because they could toss each other a raft, leaning on each other and each pulling through their own darkness, feeding off of each other for strength and just being together and not feeling so _lost_.

An impossibility.

He and Alfred would never act like that. Even if they could overcome the last hurdles and become 'friends', then so what?

Alfred wouldn't tell him everything. He wouldn't trust himself to drink with Alfred. Alfred wouldn't walk down the street with him for appearance's sake. He wouldn't let himself lean on Alfred for strength for his pride.

They couldn't be real friends.

He would never be able to call Alfred on the phone in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep. It would never be a normal friendship.

And yet...

Antonio's advice was churning over and over again through his thoughts, and despite every effort to brush it off, he could not help but consider the possibility that maybe Antonio was right.

Maybe he was being...difficult. Maybe Alfred was sick of everything too. Maybe Alfred spent his days in this same sea of misery. And maybe they could never be the kind of friends that spend the night together and did everything together, but maybe they could just be acquaintances.

Maybe they could just say 'Hi' to each other when they bumped on the street.

A phone call every few months, just to check in.

And that would be enough.

Enough to end this war.

It would be enough for him, just to know that he didn't have to worry about Alfred anymore. To go back to a normal routine.

Even if Alfred only sought to soothe his conscience, it didn't matter. Maybe interacting with him, even in such a small way as a greeting, would serve as a remedy to both of them.

He would be able to sleep again.

Seeing Alfred would not cause him undue stress. Better for the both of them. He could handle that. Not being intimate, but not being hostile. He could do that.

Antonio would be proud of him.

He would have a reason to be proud of himself. He could do that.

And with that bolstering of perhaps irrational confidence in his head, he stood himself up straight, fought away the sleepiness, and braced himself for the day.

Today would be the day. Today, he would bury five years. Maybe it would help him. Maybe it wouldn't.

But he could say he had tried.

Time passed, as he rested his weight against the counter upon jittery hands.

The streets became crowded as the morning faded.

One of the prime times for Alfred to appear.

His confidence was marred by a great nervousness. What would he do when Alfred came?

Time passed.

Noon was on high.

Alfred hadn't come yet.

But the day was young yet.

He took up a cloth, and began wiping things down in an effort to control his nerves and to give the appearance of actually working.

His mind raced with awkward scenarios.

Maybe he could wave at him, and that would be enough, and Alfred would be so excited that he would just leave, and everything would be easier after that.

The high noon sun slowly began to lower, pale and white behind the endless winter clouds, and with every inch that it lowered in the sky, his expectation began to wane. Every few seconds or so he caught himself looking up at the window, breath caught in the darkness of a shadow, but in the end, there was nothing.

Alfred hadn't showed yet.

He convinced himself that he ache in his stomach was certainly _not _disappointment.

Absently, he held the cloth within his hand, rubbing the counter down in the same spot he had been half an hour ago, eyes unfocused and bleary upon the opposite wall.

Every time someone paused, he would look over automatically.

But it wasn't ever Alfred.

He felt a twisting of restlessness in his stomach. So long it had taken him to gather up the courage to even attempt this, and now the son of a bitch wasn't even going to show up? He was not sure that he would possess the same will tomorrow.

It was now or never.

Today. It had to be today.

But even if Alfred did come...

Oh God, what would he say? Thinking about it made him want to vomit. What could he possibly _say_?

He was so awkward...

What would he say?

'Let's just not fight anymore.'

No.

'You're Alfred. I'm Ludwig. Let's call a truce.'

No...

'You're an egotistical jackass and I still kind of hate you and your ugly jacket, but I'm sick of feeling so shitty all the time, so let's be friends.'

...nope.

His hands were trembling, hidden within the cloth.

This anxiety was killing him. Such a strange notion, to think that maybe he and Alfred could be something other than destined enemies.

But not necessarily unpleasant.

He didn't want to feel so _bad _all the time. He could not bear this world of veiled misery and half-heartedness.

He was _tired_.

If relenting a bit to Alfred was the cure for that, then, well...

"Whoa!" came a sudden voice next to him, and he jumped in alarm, but when he wrenched his head to the side, it was just the store-owner, standing there hand on hip, smiling at him. "I think that's the cleanest that counter's been in about ten years."

For a stunned moment, he stood there frozen, and then he flushed a deep red and set the cloth aside, trying to regain himself as the owner's wife tittered from within the kitchen doorway, sending him a look of motherly fondness.

Looking about this way and that, he stood there in silence until he was alone again, and let himself breathe.

The time passed.

The sun was still bright. White.

The evening was upon them. Nearly five.

His anxiety peaked.

Five had been the hour that Alfred had shown up only the day before.

Time slowed into a horrible, dull lurch. The urge to forget the whole thing and flee was creeping up upon him.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he would freeze up, like he always did. Alfred would just leave, and everything would be the same.

But, oh, thinking of that breathtaking _smile _that Alfred had sent him!

He had never known a look like that. It wouldn't be so bad, he admitted reluctantly to himself, if Alfred would repeat that action again today.

There had to be _something _there to create a smile like that. There had to be something within Alfred that was sincere in this endeavor. There had to be something pushing Alfred forward when it would have been so easy just to flow down that same old river.

Something. There was something there. Something that could bring them together, if only a little.

He could stand being smiled at like that.

Even if it was just by Alfred.

Looks like that.

Time dragged in a haze.

The white sun turned golden. The clouds turned orange and pink.

And then it happened.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see someone stop before the window, casting a shadow into the store. The dull sheen of a jacket.

Feeling his heart leap up into his throat and a burst of dizzying adrenaline, for a dazed moment, he turned his head, and he _knew _that it was Alfred, coming now like he had been coming so frequently, and he was going to raise up his hand and give that bold wave, but this time Ludwig would force himself to smile in return, and if everything went well, maybe Alfred would be emboldened and take a step forward and actually come inside, and maybe they would even shake hands, and utter the word 'friend'—

Oh, God.

God, he _longed _for a friend.

He could admit it now, pushing aside pride and dignity, because he was _lonely_.

Antonio could only do so much.

He turned his head.

Turn. Observe. Acknowledge. Smile.

Smile.

Smile.

He could smile. He _could_.

He could...

He turned his head.

And then jumped back at a great, ear-splitting shatter.

He had turned his head, but before his eyes had even fallen to the street something (maybe a rock; he was too dizzy with adrenaline to tell) had been hurled through the shop window, and even though his mind did not immediately comprehend what had happened, his body reacted mechanically, and he leapt back and shielded his face with folded arms in an automatic mechanism of defense.

The crash echoed in his ears.

Clinking of glass shards hitting the tile.

The sounds of the street outside were far too loud, the barrier keeping them out now compromised. Then there was a thick, frightening silence, and he lowered his arms slowly, and turned wide eyes to the shattered window, as the cold winter air blew in with fervor.

The adrenaline slowed into a creeping dread.

Time stopped. He couldn't breathe.

Someone was standing there in front of the window, alright.

It wasn't Alfred. But it was close enough in the family tree.

Alfred's father.

Ludwig could feel his blood freeze in his veins as the old man stood there before the window, shoulders and arms braced and his whole body tense, standing there stark still in the street and staring in through the broken window, and oh _God_.

God, the _look _on his _face_.

The hairs on the back of Ludwig's neck stood upright. But not in the way the son had sent them up.

Terror.

He had not seen such a look like that, a horrible expression of rage and undiluted, unadulterated, uncontrollable _hate_, not since—

—s_top talkin' in that ugly language, won't ya? No one wants to hear that shit, take it back to hell with you, you dirty old Fritz and tell Adolf that I'm the one that sent ya there, like I sent the rest of 'em all over_—

—not since _that day_, not since old Dieter had been stomped into the ground on that sunny, warm day, surrounded on all sides by people and yet so alone.

It was the same look. The same look. Only this time it was directed at _him_.

Stiff and suddenly unable to move, he could only stare back through the glassless window, eyes wide in horror, and wonder what he had done.

What had he done?

Oh Christ, that look! He couldn't move.

Footsteps behind.

The owner and his wife came skidding into the room behind him, and he could hear her gasp as she saw the shattered glass upon the floor, but he could not turn his head to look back at them.

He was caught in the old man's eyes.

A voice drifted in through the voice, low and raspy and thin. Emotionless. Chilly.

"Went out to look for my boy. He never comes home anymore. And then someone said he's been coming out around here, just walkin' all over the place. But I'm not dumb. I know why he comes out here. You."

The old man's fists clenched at his sides.

"I'm only goin' to tell ya once, so listen real good."

Ludwig couldn't breathe.

"I don't know what you've done to him, but it's not gonna work."

Too horrified to even tremble. Not a muscle moved.

"You're not gonna get him."

A horrible, unyielding gaze. Nearly crazed.

"You stay away from _my _boy."

A wordless promise of retribution.

"Stay away."

With that, Alfred's father turned on his heel and walked off, leaving only his words and shards of glass behind as a reminder of his presence.

Nothing stirred. No sound.

And he could only stand there, and wonder to himself (with something that felt like despair) if maybe he had unwittingly knocked something loose in Alfred's old man's head just by _knowing _his son. Maybe the old man was really losing it, and maybe he would be more dangerous than ever before, and maybe those bars on his windows would prove more needed than he had ever intended—

A stunning realization.

_Alfred_?

Since _when_?

Jones. Goddamn Jones and his goddamn father.

He was horrified at himself. It had always been Jones. Oh, what had he been thinking? What had he been thinking? Friends! He had thought the word!

The horror blazed into something _far _beyond anger, because this was _not _his _fault_.

It was Jones' fault. Jones had started this whole fuckin' thing, _he _had never asked for Jones to intervene on that night, and _he _had never asked Jones to follow him around like a goddamn puppy and make small talk over and over despite how hard he was ignored.

He had never asked for this. Jones had started this whole mess.

He had been so stupid, _so _stupid, to ever think that something _good _could come from someone like Jones, not someone like _him_—

A movement before him, and the owner stood before the window, lips pursed and examining the damage with an eagle eye, shaking his head to himself.

Ludwig was able to move again. The rage dissolved into shame.

"I'm _sorry_," he moaned, as he fell down onto one knee and began carefully gathering up the shards of shattered glass within his hands, "I'm really—I'll get it fixed. I'm _so _sorry."

He felt like bursting into tears.

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, surely they wouldn't toss him out because of this! He hadn't known this was going to happen, he hadn't meant for it, he hadn't wanted it. Oh no, he didn't know where to go if they made him leave. Where would he go? He had no more money.

Oh _no_, this couldn't be happening.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll fix it, I swear I will, please don't—"

"Hush," came the gentle reprimand from the wife, as the owner retreated to the back, to fetch a broom no doubt, "You think this is the first time we've had our windows broken? Ha. Take the world as it is, Ludwig, not as it ought to be."

A hand on his shoulder.

And then she was gone, following her husband, leaving Ludwig crouched there in a moment of sobering immobility.

Ha. How strange.

_Take the world as it is, not as it ought to be._

His father had uttered those very words, as he had knelt there on the floor, just like this, placing his large hands upon Ludwig's shoulders as he sought to guide his remaining son one last time before he marched off to war, taking his shoulder bag and rifle and walking through that door.

The world had turned out to be different than he had thought it would be. His father had never prepared him for _this_.

Not life like this.

Fighting back the urge to fall forward on the floor and dissolve, he clenched his jaw and tried to clean up the mess as best he could, feeling shamed and hopeless and absolutely worthless.

No good came from him. Misfortune was all he had to offer anyone. Good people took him in and bad things happened.

He wished, for the first time in weeks, that he really had died that night.

It would have been better.

And suddenly, as the pieces of glass in his palms clicked and clattered against each other and he was concentrating on not slicing his hands apart for his misery, a shadow fell above him.

The gold sun gleaming in through the door was blocked out. But only for a second, and then the shadow was gone, and before he really realized it, there was someone kneeling before him. He did not raise his eyes, because he didn't really want to know who it was. A hand right in front of his own, as they reached for the same shard of glass.

A burn in his chest.

The fingers brushed against his own. And they stayed there, not bothering to pull away.

He stared down, and felt his agitation growing.

Because he knew that hand. He knew the sleeve of that jacket. He knew that smell of machinery and leather and cologne. He knew those boots.

Why?

Oh, _why_? Why was _he _here? He couldn't stand it. He couldn't bear to look at Jones right now, not after...

_Stay away from my boy._

Not after _he _had put others in danger just by _being _here, just because of Jones.

Jones had put him into this position. Jones had made him a _danger _to be around.

Antonio had been wrong.

Yanking himself to his feet so quickly that his healing rib stung like it was going to break all over again, he hurled the shattered glass at Jones' feet, too angry to control himself, and when Jones staggered upright, looking alarmed and maybe hurt, he stomped his foot and cried, "Get out! Get out! Get _out _of here!"

For a second, Jones just stood there, arms limp at his sides, and instead of retreating like he by all rights should have, he lowered his eyes, and when his gaze fell on Ludwig's hands, he murmured, almost dazedly, "You're bleeding."

Silence.

He almost couldn't believe his ears. Dumbly, he looked down, and could see that, indeed, he had sliced his palms on the shards when he had hurled them furiously at Jones.

Drops of blood on the tile. Warmth running down his fingers.

Steady dripping.

And Jones was still _standing _there.

Oh, _God_, why couldn't he just leave him alone?

Why? What did he _want_?

"Go away," he finally managed, weakly, and Jones suddenly caught his gaze, and it was obvious that he was giving every effort to smile, trying to ignore the harsh tone of voice.

He didn't budge.

Ludwig wanted to cry.

This stress and endless frustration was too much. He could not comprehend what Jones _wanted _from him. Why couldn't he understand that they could never be friends? Didn't Jones live in the real world? Didn't he?

They were not meant to associate.

Friends...

And he remembered, as Jones stared at him longingly, with a horrible pang of something that almost felt like _hurt_, that he had slipped out of the real world too. Because for all of the tough talk in his head...

He had been placid around Jones. He had lowered his guard. He had allowed Jones room to come near. He had allowed Jones to speak to him. He had allowed Jones to seek him out. He had allowed Jones to stand there and stare at him without interruption. He had stared back. He had done nothing to deter him. He had almost looked _forward _to seeing Jones waiting there outside. He had liked being caught under that great beam. He had felt his lips twitch when Jones waved at him, so close to slipping into a smile.

Oh, God, he had actually entertained the _notion _that he and Jones could be _friends_.

He had almost smiled that day.

Smiled.

How could he?

That foolish thought that there was something there that could bring them together, at the same time choosing to childishly dismiss the fact that there were a hundred other things pulling them firmly apart.

He and Jones could _never _be friends. The shattered glass upon the tile was a painful reminder. Standing here on destruction, staring at each other, yet again on opposite sides.

And they had nothing for it.

...oh.

It hurt. Reality _hurt_. He had slipped out of the real world, and coming back into it so hard was devastating.

He had thought...

He had considered...

Friends.

No; he had _wanted _to forget the animosity and the pain and the hatred and just be friends.

Just friends.

If nothing else, mere acquaintances. How could he? Was he so foolish? Was he so _desperate_?

Antonio had been _wrong_.

Jones stood still, looking crestfallen and yet somehow still hopeful, as though maybe there was still a way he could _fix _this whole mess, and when he took a step forward, the crunch of glass beneath his boots filled Ludwig's ears and drew him out of the dull mist like a shrill alarm.

Jones couldn't fix this. Jones couldn't fix _anything_. Jones couldn't fix people.

Jones couldn't change the world.

Even if he wanted to.

Ludwig, hating the feeling of vulnerability, masked the hurt with fury.

"Get out!" Clenching his bloody fists and taking a combative step forward, hoping to bully Jones out with only his voice and stance, he kicked the glass towards the stupid brat with malice. "Out! Get out! Go away! Leave me alone!"

Jones reached out, an awful look of pleading upon his face as he held his hands beseechingly up in the air, moaning, "Please, let me just say it, _please _listen, I wanted to tell you—"

"I don't _care_!" he interrupted, and he could hear that his voice had became a high-pitched shriek, and he had _never _been so angry, so offended and so hurt and _so _miserable, and it took every ounce of restraint not to jump on Jones and just hit him until he couldn't hit him anymore.

This was all Jones' fault.

"Please!"

Too much. It was just too much.

The way Jones had smiled at him, he should have known it felt too good to ever be true, to ever happen again, but it had seemed like a beacon of hope, a dream even, in this dismal rut he called life.

Too good. The dream had shattered along with the glass.

Jones took a step forward, brow scrunched up as though he were seconds away from bursting into tears, and when his fingers reached out and brushed the sleeve of his shirt, Ludwig snapped.

His heart was aching. He hurt. So hurt back.

Snatching himself back from the grasp as though burned, he pulled back his hand and struck out, slapping Jones across the face as hard as he could, putting everything his exhausted body had into it.

The sound in the quiet shop seemed too loud.

Jones staggered back, stumbling over his own feet and catching himself at the last second against the frame of the door, and when he looked up, eyes wide and hair tousled and cheek red and glasses close to falling off, the look he sent Ludwig was almost numbing in its despair.

Confusion. Hurt. Incomprehension and betrayal and helplessness and devastation.

Crushed. As if he just didn't _understand_.

And it hurt Ludwig more than anything.

Oh, why did it have to happen this way? Both of them would be miserable forever. He didn't _want _to see Jones like this.

But there was no other outcome.

Jones had to get it through his thick head.

"Get out of here. Don't come back."

Jones shook his head, eyes unfocused ahead, muttering dazedly, "Why do ya keep doing this? I don't get it, I don't."

How could anyone look so hurt?

This was killing him. He couldn't stand it anymore.

"Get out! Oh, _God_, get out! _Go_!"

"I only want—"

"_I don't care_! Go! Go away! Get out of here! Get out! _GET OUT_! OUT!"

He could not remember ever having shouted like this, not ever, voice so loud and high that half of the notes were lost to the air, and his throat burned for the effort. Jones was just staring at him in shock, as if this horrific outcome and this screaming had never been something he had counted on happening.

And of course not!

Dumb, arrogant Jones would only think everything would go as he wanted it to.

It would have been so much better if Jones had gotten angry and retaliated or shouted back or stomped off in fury, but he just _stood _there.

Staring.

This broken situation...

Nothing more could ever happen. Their paths had been chosen for them a long time ago, and at no point did they intersect. How could they change them?

"Please leave," he moaned, miserably, arms falling loose at his sides as fury turned to utter despair, praying that Jones would go before he began to cry.

He'd die of shame if he cried in front of Jones.

"Please!"

A movement.

Lowering his hand from his cheek, Jones took a great breath, looked around the room, and let his eyes settle on Ludwig. But there was no smile there this time.

It had to happen.

Jones nodded his head.

"Alright."

Seconds of lingering, maybe waiting for Ludwig to change his mind. He didn't, and stood still.

Finally, Jones retreated, turning and disappearing as quickly and quietly as he had come.

Silence.

And when he was gone, no relief came from it.

Ludwig sank down onto his knees, on the verge of losing it. He only felt worse.

Leaning forward and catching his weight on his palms, oblivious to the burn as the shards dug into them, he stared at the floor, slumping farther and farther down until, before he knew it, his forehead was nearly touching the tile.

It had to happen.

He could keep it together, if he tried.

No one ever had to know that his inability to smile was from misery and not coldness. No one would know, if he just kept it together. Jones didn't have to be his downfall. Jones didn't have to be the end of him.

But, _oh_...

Never had breaking down seemed like such a good idea.

A footstep behind him brought him back into the atmosphere, and with a rush of strength he was surprised he even had left, he pushed himself up off the floor, falling back onto his knees and pretending as though he had merely been gathering up the glass all along.

Even though he knew that they had seen (or at the very least heard) the altercation, but that was no reason to forgo his pride and let Jones turn him into a puddle of mangled nerves.

The wife came around, carefully, and placed a hand upon his back.

"You're bleeding all over, Ludwig, come on... Let me clean your hands up."

"It's nothing. Just a few scratches."

"Don't give me that!"

"Just let me finish cleaning—"

"I'll get all this up," the owner interjected, firmly, and knowing that there were no more excuses, he pulled himself up to his feet, and tried to keep his chin high as she tugged him towards the kitchen, her husband sweeping up the shards with pursed lips.

She fussed and tutted here and there, but he didn't really hear her, staring off at the wall, and keeping a blank face of impassiveness.

They wouldn't see how this had affected him.

...it _had _to happen, but Christ, it didn't make it sting any less. The pain in his hands was no match.

A pat on his arm.

"You hear me?"

Starting as though from sleep, he turned bleary eyes toward her and breathed, dazedly, "Huh?"

"I said, I think they'll be alright. They're not that deep. You should be alright without stitches. Just some cuts."

"Oh," was all he managed.

She sent him a strange, stern look.

"You should go home and rest up. Go on! Go get some sleep. You look really awful."

"Thanks," he murmured, far too out in space to realize what was going on, and the next thing he knew she was leading him to the door.

He heard scraping of glass upon tile.

"Hey, Rudolf, I'll be back soon, I'm going to walk him home."

The fog in his mind was thick.

Dumb Jones...

"Alright. Tell that kid he lives with to keep a good eye on him. With that damn crazy Ami runnin' around. Jesus pleasus it's gonna be just like before."

"Don't say that, you old fool. Nothing will happen to him. We know better than to just stand still now..."

"Sure! Like last time, and the time before that, and the time before that."

"Stop it."

Their voices passed like mists.

How strange, that only hours before his outlook had been so hopeful...

Things could turn on a dime. That great, intense look of hope and longing would never be on Jones' face again.

A tug on his arm, and suddenly he was moving, aware in some sense of his surroundings but not completely able to free himself from shock and daze.

Cold air. Sounds of the street. He had felt a ray of warmth breaking through the freezing night.

Stupid.

He should have known better by now. He should have known better than to get his hopes up. Nothing ever turned out like it was supposed to. Hadn't he learned this lesson long ago? What a foolish thing hope was. Pointless.

A dull knocking.

Standing there in a daze, brow furrowed and possibly muttering incoherently to himself, he felt another hand upon him, and tried to appear alert, even if he wasn't.

He knew the feel of Antonio's hand. He was being passed off between them.

"Well, listen..."

And now she was telling him to be alert and aware.

Cheery Antonio, once again being brought down by worry.

He tried to drag himself from his stupor when someone shook his shoulder.

"Hey! Stay home tomorrow, alright? Rest up for a few days. Don't worry about anything. We'll take care of whatever you need, alright? Take some time."

Even through the haze, he knew charity when he heard it. He had no want of charity.

"Tomorrow," he heard himself say. "I'll be in tomorrow. Don't worry about me."

His pride would kill him.

Taking in his surroundings blearily, he could feel them staring at him, and Antonio looked absolutely devastated, as though this entire thing had happened to him. Maybe guilt, for spurring Ludwig on with hopeful words.

It wasn't Antonio's fault.

"I'll be in tomorrow," he repeated, monotonously, and with a polite nod of his head, he turned on his heel and glided without a sound up the staircase, leaving them behind to mutter amongst themselves and no doubt send concerned looks in his wake.

He would rather just go to sleep.

Glass shattering.

_Stay away from my boy._

My boy. But he hadn't gone _near _that boy.

How unfair...

The terrible positions that Jones put him into. Jones tried his best (the poor, dumb oaf) to pull him out of one rut and only wound up tossing him unceremoniously into another.

He found his bed when he walked straight into it, and it was with effort that he kicked off his boots with either heel and then fell down onto the mattress, not bothering to undress nor pull back the blanket.

Such little things. Why bother with them?

He wanted to sleep.

Mercifully, shot nerves and shut-down neurons and a heavy heart made sleep come easily.

One thing to be grateful for.

* * *

><p>Morning came before he really even realized that the night had ended.<p>

Time blurred into an endless stream.

He suspected that the only reason he woke up at all was because someone was running their fingers through his messy hair.

Inhaling to steady the sudden race of his heart as his body crashed out of unconsciousness, he turned his head, but didn't dare to open his eyes, because what he wanted would not be there. Awaking like this, to someone stroking his hair, was only another way for fate to torment him.

Did everything have to remind him of things long gone?

His brother had done this every morning. Every morning, even when there was really no good reason to get up, hovering above him and trailing cool fingers through his hair until he woke up, and always that same smile when he did.

Love.

"Ludwig?"

But it wasn't his brother.

"Hey."

Just Antonio, sitting on the edge of the bed and fretting, like he always did.

"You awake?"

"Yeah," he grumbled, his voice thick and muffled by the pillow he was pressed into, and with a weary sigh, he pushed himself up on his elbows and onto his knees as the daze of the day before shook off.

Antonio tried to smile.

"Do you want something to eat? I'm about to set out."

"No thanks."

Antonio's look of expectancy seemed tired.

"Alright. I wish I could stay here with you. Won't you just stay home today?"

He shook his head, and Antonio heaved a sigh.

Antonio looked disheartened. Down.

"Okay, okay. I gotta go. Be careful, alright? Don't go anywhere you don't need to. I'll be back as soon as I get off, I shouldn't be too late."

"I'll be fine," he said, voice more steady and confident than he really felt, and he shrugged a shoulder, airily. "Don't worry about me."

An impossibility, because Antonio always worried, but he stood up and made for the door anyway, tossing back a quick, "I'll see you later," before he was gone.

Ludwig could only turn his gaze up to the clock, already feeling the circles heavy beneath his eyes, and consign himself to the fact that another day had, indeed, begun.

Same old thing.

Rolling out of bed and giving only the minimal effort to look alive, he trudged to the door, and wondered to himself why any of this was really even worth it. What was he really gaining from any of this? If he didn't have any debts to pay—and damn, now he had to get that fuckin' window replaced too—then what would be the reason for any of this?

He had no answer.

It had been bad enough, having his own mind as an enemy. Now there was someone else after him.

Great.

Wandering down the stairs and into the street felt exactly the same as it always did, as it should, because nothing ever really changed. Same sidewalk, same houses, same trees, same dark alleys and the same foul smell and the same rude people, the same oily sheen on the horizon.

That same stomach-churning homesickness.

He hated this place. Nothing ever changed.

How did they go on like this? Didn't they ever want to go somewhere where they could just walk outside alone? Where they could think?

He longed for silence.

But all he got were honking taxis and people shouting and shoving at each other. Rudeness and disdain and apathy and no respect for their fellow humans.

Same old, same old. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

There was one thing, however, that managed to catch his attention as he slumped through the dirty, slushy snow upon the sidewalk.

Something caught his eye as he approached the shop.

A gleam.

And that was strange.

He looked up, and for a moment, found himself slowing his pace.

The window of the shop.

The hastily pinned-up tarp of plastic that he expected was not there. No fluttering, opaque material in the winter wind. No pieces of cut cardboard, no makeshift barriers of boxes or tape to protect from the wind.

Instead, gleaming in the morning sun, was a pane.

New glass. As if nothing had ever happened.

A sick lurch of adrenaline spurring him on, he marched forward and pushed through the door, leaping in with intent, and before anyone could even open their mouths and tell him, 'hello', he had jumped into the middle of the store and proclaimed, somewhat loudly and certainly awkwardly, "N-no! I didn't want you to go out and buy it! It was my fault, I should have been the one to get it fixed—"

They stood still, and he trailed off, caught under strange looks.

A flush of red on his cheeks made him clamp his jaw and duck his head, and he managed to sum up with a lame, "I should have bought it. Not you."

"We didn't buy it," came the strangely tentative response from the wife.

Ludwig looked up, startled.

They were unusually silent, and very nearly shuffling their feet.

Finally, the owner waved his hand in the air and said, lowly, "No, it was that kid. He came by yesterday again, after you'd left. Paid for the whole thing. Even stayed when the guys were installin' it and kept fussin' at 'em to make sure they were doing it right."

...what?

He nearly giggled at the absurdity.

But there was no joke; their looks were so serious that it was almost frightening, and it was immediate, the rush of embarrassment. Mortification.

What the hell was going on?

The burst of adrenaline dragged him firmly out of his shock, and suddenly the terror of the day before was replaced by an indescribable confusion. Had he not made himself perfectly clear? Hadn't he told Jones not to come back here?

What part of that had he not understood?

Good God almighty, where the hell _was _he? Maybe he really _had _died on that miserable night those weeks ago, and now he was just stuck in some desolate, ghostly plane, because ever since then nothing had made sense.

He just stood there, staring straight ahead and clenching his jaw, and then the owner stuck something neatly in front of his face, startling him. When his eyes adjusted, he saw a small white card, and took it automatically.

"He left this for you."

Looking down at the stiff stationary in his hand, Ludwig furrowed his brow and flipped it over with a sense of dread.

What now?

Sloppy, scrawled words. Bold letters. Excessive exclamation points. Enthusiasm in written form.

'_MERRY CHRISTMAS! My fault. My gift to you._'

Oh. Oh, _really_?

His head hurt all of a sudden.

Dumb Jones. What a childish, stupid gesture.

And yet...

When he looked back up, feeling somewhat dazed and certainly like he had consumed quite a bit of alcohol, he was caught under a stern, apprehensive gaze.

"Hey, Lutz," came the tentative question, "You—you do know who he _is_, right? Don't you?"

The daze faded into a squirm of something that almost felt like guilt. And maybe a little annoyance.

"Yeah," he finally grumbled, as he straightened up and tucked the note casually into his pants. "I know."

The owner's eyes lingered upon his pocket, and he twitched as though he wanted to say something, maybe to ask why in God's name Ludwig was even keeping the goddamn thing, but in the end he fell still, and shook his head.

"Be careful. Outsiders aren't always friends."

It was true, sure, but the statement sent a squirm of agitation through his stomach nonetheless. A strange feeling of discomfort.

_Merry Christmas!_

If anyone was going to let Jones know what a bastard he was, it was damn well going to be him. He didn't need anyone watching his back for him and telling him who was dangerous and who was not.

He knew all about Jones.

He stifled a sudden urge to blurt out, 'I know him better than you do!' because it would have been needlessly rude and certainly foolish. Why would he say such a thing anyway? He and Jones were not friends. He knew that. He wasn't stupid.

"You know," he suddenly said, as he turned his eyes to the new pane of glass shining in the window, "I really don't feel so well. Would you really mind if I went back home?"

"Course not!" came the quick response. "Go! Go. Go lie down and get some sleep for once. You still havin' that insomnia?"

As he made for the door, hands tucked into his pockets and feeling oddly jittery, he shook his head.

"I think I'm getting over it. I slept pretty well last night."

"Good. Now go on."

He did.

And as he went, that foolish side of him that should have known better couldn't help but feel a little comfort, in some strange way, that Jones hadn't really been as broken down by their altercation as he had first imagined.

Actually, he seemed to have bounced back just fine. A relief as well as an annoyance.

Jones looked awful with that expression of despair upon his face. Like a wounded puppy. Pitiful.

People like Jones weren't meant to look like they were about to burst into tears.

He wandered about. He didn't go home.

Lost up in his head and clenching the piece of paper in his hand, he wandered the streets aimlessly, traveling here and there under the guise that he was catching up on desperately needed exercise.

Maybe some part of him, deep in the back of his mind, was just keeping his feet moving to increase the odds of bumping into Jones.

Why? To toss the note in his face, of course, and tell him that his gifts were neither needed nor wanted.

Yeah...

Yeah, that was why.

He walked.

Morning faded into noon.

His feet began to throb a bit. But still he walked.

He crossed carefully through the streets and roamed the forgotten, icy trails of the park.

Noon faded into a painted evening.

He walked still, leaving the park behind for the glitzy, glowing streets near the Broadway.

Too many people. Too much noise. He abandoned that venture quickly, and by the time the evening faded into the moonlit night, he was on his way back home, hungry and tired and feeling strangely unsatisfied.

No encounters of any kind. Good or bad.

The racing of his heart and the cool sweat upon his brow was pleasant, though, after being stationary for so many weeks. Good for him to get his muscles moving and coming out of lethargy. He was lucky he hadn't collected a bunch of clots in his legs, just sitting there all that time.

The wind picked up.

Familiar houses. He was almost home.

Home.

His new home. A fact that no amount of homesickness would change. This place was his home now.

The moon glowed up on high, white and enlarged behind the thin clouds that cloaked the sky. The sounds of the street and the winter wind mingled with voices.

His house was in sight.

Under the light of the pale-blue lamplight, he thought he saw shadows shifting ominously up next to the door.

The voices became louder.

He sped his pace, feeling a creep of alarm. Was someone trying to get in his house?

Fuckin' Christ, better not have been Luna Lovi, he was _not _in the mood for that right now, and if the crazy bastard was trying to sneak into his backyard he was going to forgo his commitment to peace and toss the motherfucker right out into the busy street.

Felicia would be better off without him.

Right? Right.

But when he came closer, he could see that the figure was too tall and too broad in the shoulders to be slender Luna Lovi.

A flash of white-gold in the lamplight.

His alarm turned into terror.

Maybe it was Jones' old man.

For a second, he froze up, limbs falling into rigor as the thought made him shudder.

What would he do? Fight or flight?

As he contemplated every horrible outcome, the wind began to carry the voices towards him, and when he squinted his eyes and perked his ears, he realized that both of the voices were perfectly recognizable.

No old man.

A strangely loud Antonio, barking harsh words in his native tongue.

And that _other _voice...

"Hey, listen, man, can't you just tell him that I'm here? Just tell him—"

"_Ay, cabrón, pero no te entiendo! Lárgate_!"

Antonio was shouting. An unusual event.

And he knew that _other _voice, too, God help him.

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. He had to be going insane.

It was one thing to bump into each other in the street. Coming to his place of residence was another matter entirely. An unwelcome one.

He found his feet and bounded forward as the voices grew ever louder.

"_What_? Listen, stop screamin' at me, I'm not gonna hurt him or anything, I just wanna—"

"_Te voy a dar un pinche madrazo si no te vayas!"_

Ludwig skidded towards the steps, and was momentarily stunned as he ground to a sudden stop.

Another moment of complete, otherworldly surrealism that he had never imagined he would ever encounter.

Antonio stood there in the doorframe, looking dark and far more imposing than Ludwig knew him to be as the light from within streamed out from behind him in an unnerving manner, and on the top step, mere inches away from Antonio's face, stood a belligerent-looking Jones, feet braced and arms spread to balance himself in case Antonio suddenly decided to reach out and give him a great shove.

Antonio's clenched fist was raised threateningly in the air. On the line, a mere totter away from explosion.

Ha.

Where had Antonio's words of 'give him a chance' gone off to now?

No doubt the warnings of the shopkeeper's wife had spurred him into a heightened sense of mistrust and aggressiveness. Now it wasn't just Jones, after all, it was the threat of his sire following behind like a shadow and wreaking havoc from the sidelines.

Antonio wouldn't stand for it.

But an altercation in such an enclosed space, right in front of his house, was the last thing he ever wanted, and the thought of everyone talking about it the next day with guarded snickers and amused looks made him want to die of embarrassment. He had to diffuse this before it got out of hand and Antonio took a great leap forward to show Jones why he had once been a champion at wrangling with the bulls in the stadiums.

With a great, deep breath, he stomped up to the stairs, and when they turned to see him coming, the look of relief on Jones' face was visible.

"Oh, hey, I was lookin' for you—"

"Antonio," Ludwig interrupted, primly keeping his eyes anywhere but on Jones, and with a wave of his hand, he attempted to usher Antonio back inside with a clipped, "Let me handle this."

Antonio held his ground, gripping the doorframe within his hands.

"Nuh uh," came the stubborn response, and Jones jumped off to the side as Ludwig marched up the stairs so that he would not be knocked over.

Antonio was watching him with a furrowed brow and a look of agitation.

"I can take him out on my own," Antonio declared, quite eagerly, not understanding that that was exactly the thing that he wanted to avoid.

"I'll get rid of him," he muttered, as Jones looked back and forth between them in incomprehension, and Antonio's look became worried.

"Listen, I just don't want him here!"

"Don't worry about it."

"Just let me—"

"Get back inside," he commanded, firmly, and after a hesitation, Antonio crumbled beneath his unwavering gaze and took a step back.

Jones hissed air through his teeth in relief. Antonio didn't miss it, and bristled, casting Ludwig a serious look.

"Hey, I'm gonna be right here behind the door," Antonio said, very sternly and in a thin, dangerous tone of voice that was almost not his own, "So call me if you need me."

"Sure," he said, even though he wouldn't.

Antonio took a step back, sending Jones one last withering look, and as the door shut, Ludwig heard him grumble, irritably, "I'll kick his fuckin' ass if ever tries this shit again, stupid son of a...mother...jackass."

Unintelligible muttering, and the door was shut.

He was left alone out on the steps with Jones. For a second, they just stared at each other.

Jones shuffled back and forth, hands in his pockets as he tried over and over again to smile, but every attempt fell flat, and finally he just kicked absently at a patch of ice on the stone steps and said, somewhat stiffly, "How's it goin'?"

Ludwig did not bother to dignify such a question with a response, and merely leaned back against the door, crossing his arms above his chest and hoping against hope that he still had it within him to stare Jones down.

Maybe not.

Jones just shook his head and looked around anxiously, and finally heaved a great sigh.

"Hey, look, I just—I just wanted to make sure you got my card!"

Absently, his hand flew down to his pocket, clenching the card tightly to the point of crushing it even as he sent Jones an unfriendly glare. Now was his chance to shove it back in his face, but his damn hands just wouldn't move like he wanted them to.

Goddamn idiot. Why did he keep on and on and on? What other signs did he need that this was not meant to be?

Jones ignored his intense stare and suddenly reached into his jacket.

"Well, I mean, it wasn't a good card, was it?"

A not-so-smooth segue.

Jones finally smiled, weakly and nervously, and pulled something from within his jacket, and extended his hand.

"That's why I brought you a real one."

And sure enough, when Ludwig lowered his eyes, Jones was holding out a card.

His headache was suddenly blinding.

Jones just smiled, and waved the card in the air, invitingly.

"I mean, it's almost Christmas and all! Come on, everyone gets a card for Christmas, right?"

No, that wasn't right.

He didn't.

He did not take it.

"It's just a card."

Numbly, he shook his head, and stood stark still.

And for a moment, Jones' face fell a bit.

"Alright, well, then... I'll leave it right here, then!"

With that, he knelt down very carefully, and set the card down upon the mat, right in front of Ludwig's feet. No doubt he made slow, deliberate movements and kept his hands high just in case Ludwig decided to kick him straight in the face, which actually wasn't a bad idea.

But he didn't, and Jones straightened back up, looking quite satisfied with himself.

Ludwig felt somewhat dazed.

Jones shrugged a shoulder, and said, "It's nothin' much. It just says, 'Merry Christmas', you know, but I mean, it's a real card. It's glittery, anyway..."

A short silence. Ludwig imagined that Antonio was writhing right behind the door, ear pressed to the wood and bemoaning his non-existent English skills. The thought was amusing enough to make him a bit less hostile.

When he finally opened his mouth, all Ludwig could think of to say was, "You're crazy."

And he really meant it, too.

Jones' eyes widened a bit in surprise, and then he foundered and gave a very strained laugh, saying, "Yeah, I know! I get that a lot."

Oh, he believed that!

The breathless, harmless smile that spread across Jones' face was hard to reconcile with the calamities that he brought along with him. But, Ludwig observed, after looking this way and that, there did not seem to be anything awful trailing behind.

Jones saw him looking and tried to wave off the unspoken assumption with a twitch of his hand.

"Oh, don't worry. Old man's passed out on the couch."

That was no excuse to be here, and he said as much by straightening up and snapping, "Get out of here! I thought I told you to leave me alone?"

"I know," Jones tossed out quickly, twitching in what could have been anxiety, "I just wanted to... Well."

A deep inhale, and something dark was suddenly stirring behind the glasses perched upon Jones' nose.

A frantic question.

"Can I—can I give you something?"

"No," was his automatic response, disliking the sudden heaviness in the air, but it really didn't even matter.

Jones was already holding out his hand.

He found himself looking over Jones' shoulder either way, just in case...

Just in case someone unwelcome saw them fraternizing like this in such a way. Surely the news would get back to the old bastard, one way or another. Spies everywhere.

Jones looked desperate all of a sudden, an almost frightening change from his usually airy confidence.

"Please. I found it. I think you should have it way more than I should. It doesn't belong with me. I don't feel right even havin' it in the house. It's like... It's not right. Please?"

Christ, what could he do? Jones had paid for the goddamn window.

What could he do?

In the end, maybe it was curiosity more than compliance that led him to hold out a palm with a testy look and an immature sigh, and, carefully, Jones placed something cool and hard into his hand.

He gripped it, and pulled his hand away, but did not look down.

Jones was all but sweating in nervousness. And it was a squirming nervousness that kept him, too, from lowering his eyes.

"I'd rather you have it. It shouldn't be in my house. Maybe... I think it would feel a lot better here with you!"

It?

Jones was waiting, watching him expectantly and looking at the same time relieved and absolutely terrified.

Finally, shaking his head and grumbling under his breath, Ludwig looked down. Jones shuffled his feet. Seconds of hesitation, and then Ludwig opened his hand.

And it was like a sledgehammer.

A ribbon unfurled on either side of his palm, in those colors of red, white and black that sent a horrible lurch of longing burning through his veins like alcohol, the colors of the grand old empire that Germany had once been, and at the center of it all sat a gleaming Iron Cross.

Unscathed, every detail perfectly clear, down to the swastika in the center and the year glaring out from below, the medal of honor proudly boasting '42 and looking for all the world as though it had never even known a war. And maybe a swastika wasn't anything to boast, but this was something that a man had earned by being brave, even in the face of the enemy.

Honor, not hate. Pride, not shame.

He couldn't breathe. He had not expected this. Not this.

The metal caught the glow of the blue streetlamp and lit up silver.

_Oh_.

Jones couldn't have known. He couldn't have.

There was no possible way that Jones could truly _understand_...

His father's Iron Cross.

When his father had come home that one and only time for leave, he had skidded down onto his knees in the kitchen as Ludwig had bounded into his arms, pulling back after minutes to show off his medal to his remaining son, telling the tale with common humbleness, and Ludwig had spent the entire afternoon tugging at the colored ribbon around his father's neck and tracing the cross in his palms, as his father crooned softly above to his mother. He had left the cross in Ludwig's care when he had gone out again, but Ludwig had given it to his mother so that she could sleep with it at night.

His father had never come back.

His father's Knight's Cross.

Hanging on the wall above the fireplace by its ribbon, sent home along with that terrible letter—just a letter; men were dropping too fast and too many to send out personnel to inform waiting families—and his mother had fallen asleep on the couch every night, clutching the Iron Cross in her hand and staring up at the Knight's Cross until she just couldn't cry anymore, and when the war was over and the Allied soldiers were stripping the country of everything related to Hitler, he could still remember his mother's awful shriek as they had burst into the house and taken the medals from the wall and her bare hands because of the swastikas they held in their centers.

Not allowed.

Denazification. The final breaking of his mother's spirit.

Jones couldn't have known. He couldn't have understood how much it _meant _to hold that medal in his hand, even though it hadn't been his father's, even though it was a stranger's, a long-dead soldier that he knew nothing about.

It was a piece of his former life held within his hand. Jones didn't understand, and by God!

Neither did he.

"Why are you doing this?" he finally managed to whisper, and it took every effort to keep his voice from disintegrating into the air.

Jones took a step back, in what Ludwig liked to think was a showing of respect and humility and an attempt to give him his space.

"I lost my old man, too. Somewhere. You know, I used to think he was the greatest thing... He told me all of this shit, and I just wanted to be _like _him. I thought he was my hero."

A pale, weak laugh.

"Ha. What did I know? Took this right out of his room. I heard this story so many times. Takin' this off a dead soldier in a bunker and tying it to the end of his rifle whenever he shot across the lines so they'd know he'd already killed one of them... Makes me sick just thinkin' about it now."

Jones bowed his head, and Ludwig could barely hear his voice for how low and miserable it was.

"I gotta get it out of my house. Won't you take it? Seeing it makes me remember how fuckin' stupid I was. I can't stand seein' it there. It's not fair. I'm—I'm really _tired _of thinking about it so much. Can you take it?"

Take it?

The second that iron had touched his palm, he had never had any intentions of letting it go again. Because Jones was right (for once); this medal did not belong with _his_ father.

Not with _that _man. Not with someone to whom this medal was a trophy, rather than a gift. Ha. Jones would have to fight him tooth and nail to rip this cross from his clutches.

But his sudden death-grip upon the Iron Cross seemed to be something of great pleasure to Jones, who, when he nodded a stiff consent, broke into a smile.

Not one of those beams. Just a half-hearted effort.

"Yeah! Already looks better there," he observed wistfully, eyeing the ribbon dangling from Ludwig's fingers with a arched brow of casualness. "I think the guy it belonged to would be happy, knowin' you have it. You'll keep a good eye on it."

And then, abruptly, Jones gave a short, two-fingered salute, like good friends would do to each other, and without another word he turned on his heel, tucked his hands in his jacket, and walked down the steps.

Leaving, in a random and surprising fashion. Ludwig had expected him to linger and impose.

It was easy to shoo him off with harsh words and annoyance, but seeing him go of his own volition and after such a sweeping gesture, not even seeking to pry more conversation from him, was somehow alarming. Uncomfortable. He didn't like the lingering feeling of vulnerability such an action left behind.

Jones was heading towards the sidewalk.

Heavy boots making dull thuds on the damp concrete.

And Ludwig couldn't help it.

"Hey."

His voice was thick.

Jones paused, and looked back over his shoulder.

"Hm?"

Ludwig gathered his nerve, and braced his shoulders as he tucked the medal into his breast-pocket, where it would be safe and sound.

"Aren't you going to ask me my name?"

Jones smiled.

"Nah. You'll tell me when you feel like it. I can wait. Say, you sleepin' enough? You look tired. You should take a break."

A short wave.

"See you around."

And then Jones was on the sidewalk, a second later he was around the corner, and then he was gone completely, vanishing into the dark night.

Ludwig stood still, feet glued in place.

Maybe he was just starring in the _Science Fiction Theatre_. Because something was way out of place here.

...was he dreaming? Goddammit, if he woke up all of a sudden only to find himself back in his bed with shards of glass still stuck in the folds of fabric of his pants, he would just lose it.

Couldn't handle that.

Reaching up, he placed a palm above his breast. And the cold hardness of the Iron Cross was still there.

For a hazy second, he nearly smiled, if only in complete disbelief, and without really thinking about it, he bent over and retrieved the card from the mat, and with a dazed mind, he turned and pulled open the door, hardly aware of the tumbling Antonio that all but landed on top of him.

"Is he gone? What did he say? What did he do? What's that? You want me to go after him? Huh? What did he _say_?"

Antonio was clutching his sleeve, tugging him inside and sending a scoping glare over the horizon, observing the surroundings to make sure the enemy was out of sight.

Ludwig merely shrugged a shoulder, and said, breathlessly, "Oh. ...nothin'."

With that, his feet glided of their own accord towards the stairs, and he heard Antonio stammer from behind, 'Wha—n-_nothin'_? Hey, wait!"

He didn't, and before he knew it he was retreating into his bedroom, feeling more like he was swimming than walking.

For the first time in years, he locked the door behind him. He wanted to be alone for a while.

With wobbly arms, he set the card upon the bed, fished the little bit of paper from his pocket, and settled himself cross-legged atop the blanket, staring down at the papers like they were written in a foreign language.

He had not received a Christmas card for many years, and never here, never on this side of the ocean, and never from someone who had the previous Christmas been a sworn enemy.

Should he open it?

No.

It was better to leave it sealed, because if he opened it then the mystery would be gone and he would probably feel a bit disappointed. He had no great love of mystery, but where Jones was concerned, maybe it was better not to know.

Besides, the other little card had visible writing. He didn't need to see the other one.

Antonio was surely lingering outside the door.

He felt so overwhelmed suddenly. At a loss for coherent thoughts, let alone words, and he simply sat there in silence, drifting away.

The hour grew late, and he heard only silence from downstairs.

Antonio had gone to sleep.

Reaching into his coat, he removed the Iron Cross and held it firmly within his fingers, flipping this little part of his heart and home and past absently between his fingers as he stared blankly down.

Home.

That damn old song was stuck in his head again.

_How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile. _

_And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile! _

_Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to roam. _

_But give me, oh, give me the pleasures of home._

Pretty words.

But he no longer had a father, nor a mother, nor a home, and there were no more sentimental places left upon the earth. The only ones he had ever had had been damaged beyond repair.

This was his home now. His only home. No matter how hard it was to admit it.

But when he really stopped to think about it...

He had more here than he had there. Here, there was Antonio down on the couch to remind him that he was not completely alone, and there was Jones' gift gripped firmly in his hands to make home feel a little more like it should; nostalgic and reassuring.

What had he had back there?

No one. Nothing. Not even a friend. No memorabilia of his family. No photos. His brave father's medals lost to the winds.

For the first time he could really remember, he considered the possibility that maybe it was better to be here than it had been over there. Whatever else could be said about this horrible city, at least there was suddenly the feel of something comforting between his hands.

Not as warm as his dog had been.

Cold and inanimate and not really his, but God help him, it was like holding his father's hand all over again. It wasn't the same class as his father's medal. This ribbon had never been around his neck. But it was comforting all the same.

More than he could have asked for.

For once, the urge to bury his face in his pillow and cry was not born from complete despair.

The iron was heavy in his hand as he stared down at the cards upon the bed.

And he was momentarily confused.

How did Jones make it look so easy? Charging ahead, oblivious to all obstacles, to all the danger, too foolhardy to heed the warning signs. Maybe too determined.

There were times when it was necessary to go against everything around you and put your foot down and stand strong in the face of the rushing tide.

But this wasn't one of those times.

This was no great crisis upon the earth. No threat against the nobility of mankind. No magnificent war for the right. It was just _him_.

Just him.

Why was Jones going through all of this trouble?

Risking so much. For what? Just for a 'Merry Christmas'? Did Jones not have anything better to do? No parties to attend or friends to hang with? No other family to be with? No girls to charm?

Was he so bored that he had just taken up Ludwig as an extra-curricular activity?

Well.

Oh, well.

Whatever the reason, whatever selfish motive Jones had—and there _was _one, to be sure—it really almost didn't matter anymore. Even though Jones was only doing it all to help himself, just to make himself feel better, it was alright. He wasn't stupid, but it was a curious feeling nonetheless, to have someone striving after him in such a manner, regardless of the rationale.

Strange.

It would bring nothing but trouble.

Trouble was nothing he was a stranger to, and he was so used to winding up on the bad side of fate that maybe there just wasn't any real harm in all of this. After all, it wasn't like there was any way he could possibly sink any lower.

Jones' old man threatened to take everything.

So what? He had nothing left.

He would let things go as they would. He wouldn't seek Jones out, but he wouldn't start running if he bumped into him either.

And if the old son of a bitch killed him in the end, then so be it. As if he hadn't tried to do it himself.

He wouldn't move his wrist. Just let things play out. He would only be a witness, silent and still. He didn't care enough anymore to make an effort to change his destiny. Jones could try, if he wanted, and if it made him feel better. He was tired of fighting it. It was easier just to let Jones do as he would.

As if the great oaf listened to anything he said, anyway.

And who knew?

Maybe, just maybe, things would work out alright for him this time.

Just this once.

Sitting there in his room, listening to Antonio's loud snoring reverberating up the staircase, cast in the low glow of the lamp and cross-legged, he stared down at the two pieces of paper before him, clenching the medal possessively in his hands, and could _feel _it.

He could feel it.

He felt _better_.

And that was something he had not been able to say to himself for years.

Years.

The desire to give up and lie down was retreating. A strange concept; he was unaccustomed to feeling something other than complete hopelessness.

Jones had done it all for himself.

But even so, it was almost amazing, how one simple gesture could suddenly break through the dark like a second sun, how thoughtful words could push back the tide of despair like the moon itself, how a random act of kindness could stop the world and send it spinning in the opposite direction.

How someone could extend their hand, and unwittingly save a life.

Unwittingly? No; Jones had known damn well all along what he was doing. Jones had understood clearly, maybe more than he would like to admit, what had passed through his mind those dark days, on that dreary night. Jones had sensed that he walked out there with a morbid intention.

Ha... Maybe dumb Jones wasn't as dumb as he had first appeared, and maybe there was something _more _behind those broad shoulders and that confident smile and oafish air. Jones had known what he was doing.

Alfred.

It wasn't salvation. It wasn't passing from hell and into heaven. It wasn't the breaking of the ice into the river of life. It wasn't even really a sufficient offering for so many years of torment.

Just a simple uplift. A meager attempt to make peace. A childish attempt at trying to keep his head above the water. At giving him a second wind.

Childish.

It was enough.

The shatter of glass in his mind had all but vanished. That shatter hadn't dragged Jones down. He could brave the storm too, if he tried.

It should have seemed pathetic, almost, in its simplicity, these little acts of contrition. It should have made him think, 'this is _it_?'

It was enough.

He felt better.

The sun was still hidden behind the clouds. But he felt _better_.

The cross was heavy in his hand.

He held his father all throughout the night, sleeping in his old bed back in his old bedroom in his old house, and it was his mother on the couch down below, instead of Antonio.

A gift of illusion. Remembrance. Strength from the dead.

Alfred's great recompense.

And that was enough.


	10. Waltz of the Flowers

**A/N **: If you haven't seen yet :

**LOOK** : Wonderful **OrangePlum** has turned this story into a comic! Please go look at it, because it is AWESOME! : accelerationwaltz (.tumblr) .com

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

**Waltz of the Flowers**

Revelations.

Once few and far between, suddenly they were coming out so fast and so many that sometimes it almost made him dizzy. And while it had been easier when everything had been a straight line where absolutely no thought had been required, it was more satisfying, despite it all, to feel something different than lifelessness and dragging monotony.

Even if what he felt at most times was a bitterness so strong that it burned through him like fire that twisted his stomach and made his jaw clench until his teeth were grinding together.

Every day, something changed just a little.

But every little change was, to Alfred, an ascension to a new plane of being.

A new level.

A staircase that he was climbing, slowly but steadily, with careful treads because sometimes a step collapsed beneath him or he stumbled backwards down a few, but no matter how far he got knocked back or how many steps gave out or how many obstacles presented themselves, the only way was up.

He wouldn't go back down.

The gates of hell were beneath him. Salvation above.

And now, he was higher up this staircase than he had ever been, even if he still couldn't see the top, and he was determined to bound upwards as fast and as hard as he could.

He was ready to move onward.

But he couldn't go on alone, and that hurt a little to admit, for someone like him, who prided himself on being strong and sure and above all solitary—he leaned on no one and _needed _no one. No! The opposite; people were supposed to lean on him and need _him_.

He wanted to be the one that people ran to.

And so it _hurt _to find himself running after someone else. Needing someone else. Because God help him, he needed the German.

He couldn't move forward with all of this if the German was still stuck on the same old step down at the bottom. His father's sins (and thereby his own) had tethered him to this man, somehow or another, and so how could he take anymore steps forward if the stubborn son of a bitch was holding his footing far below and gripping the railing, refusing to budge no matter how hard Alfred pulled?

He couldn't.

His happiness was tied in to the German's well-being, and so it was important—actually, imperative—that the German cooperated with him, because he couldn't save either of them by himself.

A rare occasion where he could admit that he needed help.

However, persistence always paid off, and after weeks and weeks of nerve-wracking tugging and struggling, he had finally managed to coax the German to take a step forward. It was almost like holding out your hand to a strange, possibly aggressive dog and waiting for it to sniff you and let it decide whether or not it was going to bite you.

He had waited. The German hadn't bit. He could get up off his knee and lower his hands and let his guard down.

Little things first.

Every day, things got a little better.

Seeing that old medal in the pale hand of the German had felt a hell of a lot better than even any of those fumbling, sweaty encounters with barely-known girls on muggy summer nights.

And now that he had successfully infiltrated at least some part of the German's defenses without even _once _being punched in the face (success at its best!—he'd been slapped, sure, but that didn't count), he was emboldened and even more determined than ever before.

Watching the German through the window had been exhilarating, if only by knowing that he shouldn't have been there at all.

Things couldn't go back.

He was in a new plane, where it was almost really worth it to look at himself in the mirror. His first revelation of this new plane had come the second that the Iron Cross had been placed in the German's cool hand.

The revelation that not only could he save the German, but that he also had the power to _hurt _his father. Deep and sharp and without even raising his fist in violence.

It hadn't been so hard.

Actually, it had been really easy. So easy that it was almost criminal.

The old man had been drinking so much lately that opportunities to ransack his room came in frequent intervals, and when he was awake, he was so out in space that he didn't even seem to realize what was going on around him.

Easy to take advantage of.

Alfred had used that advantage to tread upstairs without a sound, shut the door and lock it behind, and go about things however he deemed fit.

The old Iron Cross had been a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.

The Iron Cross had always hung up on the wall above his father's bed, a trophy and maybe his father's idea of a good luck charm or a dream catcher. Ha; the thought was almost unnerving—dreams of former glory and self-righteousness brought on by the medal of a dead man dangling above the pillow.

It had occurred to Alfred, on one of those days when he stood outside the shop with his hands in his pockets and found himself staring inside at a man who was intent on pretending he wasn't there, that maybe the Iron Cross would have been better used to bring dreams to someone who had never sought to cause harm.

It had been a simple thing, to snatch the cross from the wall and tuck it in his pocket, taking it out only in the safety of his own room to examine it with his own eyes. He had shined it up a bit, and had been relieved that there were no blood stains on the ribbon.

Now that that had gone over so much better than he could have ever hoped for, and since his old man hadn't really even seemed to notice, the bitterness was alleviated a bit, and it became a goal of sorts to relieve this house of any and all things related to his father's war-time glory.

The helmet had been long since gone. The Iron Cross was gone.

He spent hours wandering around his father's room as the old man snored away downstairs, pacing here and there and contemplating what to ditch next, and where. Because some of these items, like the old maps marked with Allied advances and the rifles and the little jar of dirt from Normandy, simply weren't suitable to give to the German, and doing so would have only done more harm than good.

He could sell them, maybe, to pawn shops or street vendors. He could give them off to random people. If nothing else, he could go out and toss them all in the Hudson.

Maybe the flag from the Reichstag would go next. Better to sell that to a shop for collectors.

He almost laughed, sometimes.

If he'd known all along that it was really this _easy_!

He wondered how much of his father's shit he could pawn off before the old man began to realize that things were turning up missing.

All of it, if he could. Every last piece. Down to his medals and his fuckin' uniform.

Even his boots.

Anything. _Anything _to _hurt _him.

If this was the only way to do it, if this was the only thing he could take that the old bastard cherished, then so be it.

Maybe the old man had been a war hero, maybe he'd been a single father, maybe he'd had bigger dreams than what had played out for them, but, to Alfred, the ends just hadn't justified the means.

Turning his back on his father now was really the only thing he could think to do, even if in doing so maybe he wasn't much better than his father.

What else could he do?

Abandoning his own father was just another sin on an already long list.

But it was the lesser of two evils.

It would have been harmful and unforgivably foolish for him to believe that he could possibly find a way through this that would fix everyone. Running after the German was causing his father to drink himself to death.

He couldn't have them both. It was one or the other.

And he had made his decision, so now, he sat at the kitchen table, tapping his spoon absently on the table as he listened to his father grunting and groaning on the couch as he struggled to come back from the unconsciousness of hangover.

Just waiting. His coffee was getting cold.

Resting his chin in his palm and staring ahead into space, Alfred waited and waited, and tried to suppress the smile that threatened to creep across his face.

It was hard not to feel a little devious and a little self-satisfied. Knowing things his father did not. Working on the sidelines, so to speak.

What a thrill!

A dull thud from the living room and a moan of pain was the sign that his father had rolled off the couch and onto the floor, and after a few minutes of silence, he hauled himself to his feet and came staggering into the kitchen, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the morning light and looking very pale.

Alfred observed the dark circles under his eyes and the distant, confused gaze.

The thrill faded a bit.

It was easier to focus on how good he felt extending a hand to the German than it was to watch his father deteriorate before his eyes.

But sometimes it came sneaking up on him.

A silence.

His father finally caught his eye, squinted as though in thought, and then, slowly, came up with, "Mornin'."

"Morning."

For a moment, he wasn't really sure that his dad knew who he _was_.

Finally, with steady movements, he pushed a mug of coffee forward and said, much more casually than he felt, "It's a little cold."

His father stood there, leaning against the frame and squinting, head tilted and eyes a bit dazed, and then, he finally took a step forward, muttering to himself, "Oh. Alfred."

Yup.

Alfred.

Who did he think it was?

As his father sat before him and cradled the mug in his hands, Alfred leaned back, feeling a little disheartened without really knowing why, and added, carefully, "Maybe you should lay off the whiskey a little."

His father waved him off with an errant hand, and Alfred only fell still and silent. In guilt, perhaps, since it was really his fault that his old man was takin' to the bottle so much.

"You workin' today?" came the sudden inquiry, and Alfred merely leaned back, crossed his arms behind his neck, and shook his head.

He knew damn well why his old man was asking.

Seeing what he was up to. Where he was going.

He hadn't confronted his father about his vigilantism, never hinting or letting on that he had been in the vicinity at the time and had seen, from a safe distance, that travesty.

Two things kept him from opening his mouth and screeching, 'what the hell were ya _thinkin'_?'

Firstly, his own cowardice, which forced his throat closed whenever he wanted to tell the old bastard what was what. A fact that he was thoroughly ashamed of, but very aware of. It was too hard to get over that same old fear that had been instilled in him so long ago, which was why he kept his rebellion firmly in the shadows unless it was absolutely impossible to do so.

The girls would have called him two-faced.

Secondly, common sense. Since he had distanced himself from his father, things had changed. No longer did his father raise his hand to him, perhaps a subconscious attempt to woo him back to the way things had been before, spurred on by loneliness and worry and a sense that he was being abandoned in his most vulnerable years. Alfred hadn't responded the way he'd wanted, so now, he let loose his pent-up aggressions in a way that was somehow even worse.

On the German.

Certainly a giant step back down that fuckin' staircase.

It was better to keep his mouth shut for now; confronting his father about it might only make him more dangerous, especially with his judgment and thinking messed up by too much whiskey.

It had been one thing, coming after _him_. Going after the German was out of bounds.

He was going to have to tread lightly, for now, and continue his work on the sidelines, keeping a close watch on the German from afar and making sure that everything went smoothly. But it would be hard to get past all the nosy sons of bitches that seemed to be lurking around every corner, ready to call his old man up with the newest gossip.

Why couldn't people mind their own fuckin' business?

It was frustrating.

He'd just have to work around it, and prepare himself for the possibility that, should things continue on the same path, he might be forced to jump headfirst into a fray.

After a few sips of cold coffee, his father looked up at him, wincing a bit as his head surely pounded, and then said, a bit hopefully, "Why don't you go out with me today? We can go out to Schacht's for dinner tonight. We haven't been there for 'bout a year!" A strange, weak smile. "Spend some time with your old man, huh?"

Averting his gaze down to his own coffee, Alfred only said, nonchalantly, "Can't. Sorry. I promised Matthew we'd go down to the harbor today."

That was a lie.

His father's face fell a bit, and he only grumbled, "What're ya doin' down in the harbor?"

"Watchin' ships," was his simple response, and with that, he pushed his chair back from the table and pulled himself to his feet, walking with deliberate steps to the door as he left his father to wallow in solitude and misery.

As he went, he heard a low, bitter, "If it's not the little Adolf, it's the fuckin' frostback."

The guilt was quickly replaced with anger, and he made a point of slamming the door behind him as hard as he could, if only to startle the old man into silence in his wake.

Wouldn't he ever just shut _up_?

Jumping down the steps and into the slushy streets, he walked just for the hell of it; Matthew was working. There was no one to go to the harbor with, but he went anyway, if only to relax a little.

The German needed a few days without him.

He sat down on a pier, and watched the ships on the water until night fell, trying to keep his mind clear of his father's voice.

The longer he was around the water, the more he contemplated giving his father's war relics a burial at sea. Hurting the owner without dishonoring the cause.

That sounded right.

By the time he got home, he was not surprised to see that his old man had already gone off to bed.

He scrounged up something to eat, and plotted his next move.

The days passed as normally as he could have ever expected them to, although he couldn't help but feel a little more devious than before, as he picked through his father's room whenever he was downstairs and drunk, and he successfully nicked the Reichstag flag, tied it up in a plastic bag filled with rocks, and, under cover of darkness, hurled it out into the river, where it would slowly drift downstream in the currant.

He was prouder of himself a little more each day. He felt hopeful sometimes, about the future.

But he hadn't really expected what came next.

His second revelation came as suddenly and randomly as the first.

It happened on a cold, snowy day, close to the New Year.

The revelation that his father was really just...

"Hey, Alfred," came the cry from upstairs that day, as he sat on the couch and flipped through channels with boredom, and he hadn't acknowledged his father's cry at first.

"Alfred! You hear me?"

"No," he said, petulantly.

Deaf to his response, his father came halfway down the stairs, brow furrowed and looking a little frustrated. Alfred glanced up, and when his father spoke again, his words brought on a jolt of adrenaline.

"Say, I'm goin' over to Tom's later. He's got a little grandbaby he wanted to show some medals off to. You remember that old Iron Cross I had? You haven't seen it lyin' around have ya? Can't find the damn thing."

For a second, Alfred sat there, the rush of adrenaline effectively closing his throat, and then he finally managed to croak, "Nah. Haven't seen it."

Damn. He was getting good at lying.

His father shrugged a restless shoulder, and said, "Guess I missed it somewhere. I'll look around some more."

Leaping to his feet in alarm, Alfred was quick to say, "I'll help out."

Racing to the stairs to outpace his old man, he entered the bedroom and made a point of 'helping', while in all actuality he was just keeping a close eye on the chest and making sure that his father didn't sift through it long enough to realize that not only was the medal missing, the helmet and the flag were too.

He opened dresser drawers and looked under loose papers and old books, as his father looked through the closet, and the pounding of his heart was so loud that he was surprised it wasn't audible.

A moment of stillness, and his father, lips pursed and looking agitated, grumbled, "Damn thing. The hell did I put it?"

"It's around somewhere," Alfred said, his voice surprisingly smooth for his anxiety, "It didn't just get up and walk out."

Ha...

Right.

"Well, let's see..."

His father reached out to move aside pillows and the blanket, and it was then that Alfred realized, for the very first time, that his father's hands were shaking.

Had they shook before? He had never noticed.

Suddenly, Alfred really noticed his father's grey hair, the veins on his hands, and the paleness of his face.

...had he declined so rapidly? He had been so strong before.

The shaking hands of an old man.

"You see it anywhere?"

Startled from immobility, Alfred regained his footing, and carried on.

"Not yet."

And so, heart thudding with guilty adrenaline, he helped his father look here and there for an item that he knew was no longer around, and for a while, his hands trembled almost as much as his father's did.

His chest ached.

"Maybe it fell under the bed," the old man grunted, as he reached out to grab the frame.

He tried to pull it. Nothing happened.

Finally, after horrible minutes of watching the man that had been able to lift him up with one arm when he was a child struggling to move a wooden bed-frame with two hands, he stepped forward and managed to say, "Hey, it'll turn up somewhere. Don't worry about it. Doesn't Tom have his own damn medals to look at?"

His father fell still for a moment, and mercifully, his shaking hands fell down to his sides, and he lurched backwards with a grunt.

"Yeah," he finally grumbled. "Yeah, it'll pop up. Probably just put it somewhere and can't think where..."

With that, he turned and walked toward the door, and Alfred followed, that old feeling of melancholy coming back up like a tidal wave.

Old man. Yeah, that was right.

Old man...

Even through the hate and the bitterness and all the torment, it still _hurt _to know that his old man was just that. Time was catching up, and fast. And his own uprising was causing his father's decline. The more he fought, the further his father fell.

But even so, he couldn't stop, and knowing that pushing forward would surely bring his father to an early grave was just another dagger of self-hatred that he would have to live with, even if he would spend nights later on crying himself to sleep.

He'd known all along, hadn't he, that he could only have one or the other.

Not both.

His stomach churned a bit.

The second his father pulled on his coat and walked out the door an hour or so later, he grabbed up his own coat and slunk out.

He needed to do something to get this goddamn self-hatred off his shoulders. And there was really only one person who could cheer him up like he needed.

He cut across the street, dodging traffic and cutting corners, sliding in and out of alleys with skills that put the cats to shame, and when he came up to the door he sought and brought down a heavy fist, he was already feeling a little bit better.

Just a little.

He brought up his hand to knock again, but as it fell the door was yanked open, and his fist nearly connected with a handsome, straight nose.

"Whoa!"

"Sorry," he yelped, as his uncle reached out defensively to grab his hand and force it still in midair.

"Do you always knock so, ah, enthusiastically?"

"Only when I'm excited."

Francis smiled then, and quipped, "Which means to say always, right?"

Before he could respond, the door was held open, and a hand on his arm pulled him through the threshold.

"Well, come in, come in!"

Taking note of Francis' neat clothing, pulled-back hair, and overwhelming cologne, Alfred quickly realized that he might have been intruding on personal time, and it was with a little bit of amusement that he asked, "Are you expecting someone?"

Led into the kitchen, Alfred observed the table, and was certain.

Candles, flowers, wine. Date night.

"I'm always expecting someone," Francis said, rather airily, and sent him a cool gaze. "So, what brings you to my side of the woods?"

Side of the woods. Ha. It was these little quirks in his speech that made Francis so charming perhaps, and gave away his overseas heritage to anyone who would have really cared. Had his father been here, he would have been quick to bark, irritably, 'It's 'neck of the woods'. Learn it right.'

Well, the women seemed to love the accent. Obviously.

Shrugging a shoulder, Alfred inclined his head to the wine.

"Well, I was just around. But, hey, far be it from me to ruin a romance!"

He took a step back, not so depressed that he needed to interrupt one of his uncle's love connections.

Even if there always seemed to be a lot of them. Francis, _always_ the charmer.

"I'll come back at a better time."

Francis was upon him before he could bail.

"Stay!" he cried, as Alfred backed towards the door. "Stay, stay! I'll cancel. The sea is full of fish, isn't it, and I only have one nephew!"

With that, Francis reached out and grabbed a handful of his shirt, tugging him away from the door and thrusting him quite unceremoniously back into the kitchen.

"Sit down. You can be my date tonight!"

With a snort, Alfred obeyed and fell down into a chair, resting his elbows on the spotless tablecloth as Francis disappeared into the hall to pick up the phone.

As Francis began to croon away, no doubt softening the blow of a canceled date with promises of making up for it, Alfred drummed his fingers on the table, and looked about.

No matter the weather outside or the gloominess in his head, being inside of Francis' house seemed to have a way of putting him in a good mood. An instant picker-upper.

From the fashionable furniture in the living room to the endless breads and pastries in the kitchen, from the flowers in the windowsill garden to the antiques in the basement, there really wasn't a place in the world he'd rather be when he was feeling down.

Who could stay melancholy in the presence of cheeriness and overindulgence?

And on to that, there was something else that drew him back to this place when he needed guidance. There was something in this house that he could not get anywhere else on earth.

His mother.

Or, anyway, a feel and reminder of her.

Francis' walls were slathered with photographs of her. Dresses that had belonged to his mother hung in the closet in the empty bedroom. Old perfumes sat on the vanity, along with creams and makeup that were kept meticulously dusted and in the same place they had sat for over twenty years.

A moment frozen in time.

Stepping into that bedroom was like walking with phantoms. Indescribable. There was nothing like it.

He loved seeing pieces of his mother here and there, a woman he would have given anything in the world for just to say 'hello' to, even just once, just to look at her and see her, and it was worth the feeling of longing just to sift through the closet and see clothes that she had worn, but oh...

At the same time, it made him want to burst into tears. And not for his mother.

For Francis.

Francis couldn't let _go_. He couldn't bring himself to box up all of these things and put them in the basement. He couldn't bring himself to take down the dresses and give them away or sell them. He wouldn't move a thing. Not a thing.

Alfred could understand why, in a way. He'd heard the story.

1916.

The height of the first great war.

People fleeing all around, and it had been a great desperation that had led Francis' parents to take their son before them, only six years old, strap his infant sister onto his back, and place two tickets into his hand. Too poor to afford their own tickets, they'd smoothed down Francis' hair, kissed him on his forehead, and sent him off with a neighbor who was fleeing, too, on a ship headed for Ellis Island.

Francis' father had told him, 'We'll come after you, soon. Don't get off until you see the statue. They won't join the war, but we gave them that statue, so they'll let you in.'

They had.

But his parents had never come, and Francis, always clinging dutifully to his sister and far too mature for his age, had survived on the kindness of the neighbor that had led him down to the ship. The neighbor had explained to him, when he was a little older, that he had gotten word that his parents had died in a midnight bombing raid.

Francis became not only big brother, but a guardian as well.

They had always been together, Francis and his sister, and that was why it had been so _hard _to let her go the first time, to the man who would become her husband. That was why her death, so young and so unexpected, had been so devastating.

Francis' only remaining family.

Strange, how a woman's death could bring men down.

Alfred wondered if maybe he was lucky, in some way, not to have known his mother long enough to where her death would have brought him down, too.

Francis couldn't let go. His father had tried to forget. Both of them had gone far overboard in an effort to stave off grief, in the wrong directions.

His father had tried to get rid of every reminder. Francis clung to them too fiercely. Neither of them had ever really recovered from it.

Look at them!

His father, who _had _to have been a good man long ago to attract a good woman, was left as only a bitter, hateful shell, always angry and always volatile and always hovering above Alfred in a manner that was overbearing and possessive and almost desperate. Never _happy_. Unable to accept change. Lonely and miserable and drinking himself to death.

Francis, who had been forced into the role of big brother and guardian so young, had been so devastated at losing the only person left on earth who had really _loved _him that he went out every day looking for someone to keep him company because he couldn't bear to be alone. He couldn't stand the sound of silence. It almost didn't seem to matter who he was with, as long as he wasn't alone. Keeping items perfectly straight and clean and ready for use, as though some part of him still expected his sister to come walking back through the door.

Maybe they could have helped each other, if they didn't hate each other so much. Each too proud to try and let bygones be bygones. And Alfred was stuck in between, the only living piece of his mother left upon the earth.

He loved his mother. He always would. He admired her. Idolized, even.

But it would have been nice if either one of them (Francis on normal occasions and his father only when drunk) could have ever looked at him and, instead of saying, 'you have your mother's eyes', maybe say something about _him_.

Instead of 'you're getting really tall', they'd say, 'you're tall like your mother'. Instead of 'you're pretty smart', they'd say, 'you're as smart as your mother was'. Instead of 'you're growing up to be so handsome', they'd say, 'you've got your mother's good looks'.

He was proud to be his mother's son, and he was proud that he carried on her legacy, but...

He wasn't his mother.

It was undermining his confidence in himself, and maybe it made him selfish and egotistical, but he wanted to be set apart.

He was Alfred. Not his mother.

A movement at his side drew his eyes, and when he looked over, Francis came walking back into the kitchen, smoothing back loose hairs with his hands and looking a bit sheepish.

"Well!" he said, as he caught Alfred's eye, "I only got called a son of a bitch once!"

"Only once?" Alfred was quick to tease. "Yeah, but how many times did you get called a bastard?"

"About six."

Alfred barked a laugh, as Francis came over, an unconcerned smile upon his face, and quickly uncorked the bottle of wine.

"Well, you know how things happen," he said, as he poured Alfred a glass, "You get called a bastard one day and the next day you're a prince charming again." Alfred sent him a look, and he amended, "Well, for me, anyway. You're probably called a bastard _every _day."

"I try."

Gloomy thoughts and feelings gone as quickly as the breeze, Alfred leaned back into his seat, and for a moment, watching Francis beaming away as he set up dinner, he forgot why he even came over.

It didn't matter. Just spending time with someone who acted like a father was enough.

Leering up over a glass, Francis asked, coyly, "So, where's that pretty girl you've been hanging out with lately?"

Wincing a bit, Alfred narrowed his eyes and grumbled, "I haven't been hanging out with her. She's been sneakin' up on me."

"Well, don't be so excited about it! Ha, wish she'd come sneaking up on me."

All but choking on his food, Alfred managed to send his uncle a look of horror, and rasp, weakly, "Little young for you, isn't she? But hey, if you'd like to take her off my hands—"

"That's alright."

They shared a smile, and fell comfortably into small talk and chatter, the candles melting down and the smell of roses and roasted chicken wafting around, and every time that Francis looked up at him and smiled, he couldn't help but feel that this was how dinner at home was supposed to be.

Enjoyable. A sense of family. Just talking about whatever came to mind.

Francis was a chatterbox, that much was certain, and there was never a quiet moment with him. They talked about everything under the sun.

Well, almost.

Conversations about women didn't seem to last very long, and maybe it was a little too obvious, as they sat here with only each other as company, that they didn't have much experience in meaningful, long-term relationships.

Their beds were always empty in the morning.

Francis, however, seemed confident that one of these days, he'd actually find a way to keep one of the dates from ever ending. Wishful thinking, perhaps. Maybe some men were meant to be eternal bachelors. It would be a little strange to see Francis ever actually settle down. Seeing him actually make it to the altar would have been a minor miracle.

Well, some things weren't mean to be.

And moods, Alfred discovered, could change quickly.

Finally, after the bottle of wine was as empty as both of their beds, Francis turned bleary eyes up to him, and sent him a strange, strained smile.

A moment of heavy silence.

Alfred smiled back, breathlessly.

"What?"

Francis shifted in his seat, back and forth, and then shook his head, and asked, tentatively and carefully and with false carelessness, "So! How's your father been doing?"

Alfred opened his mouth, and quickly fell still.

Oh, yeah.

That was why he'd come over here. To forget about his old man's shaking hands.

Trying to keep the air light, he finally said, "Same as always, I guess."

Francis sent him a look that bordered on disbelief, and Alfred squirmed a bit.

"Why do you ask?"

"He called me last week."

...dread.

Alfred's heart sank. He hadn't expected that. Oh, Christ, had the old man been harassing Francis again for his own behavior? He'd keel over dead.

Frozen and voiceless, he could only sit there in silence as Francis tilted his glass this way and that, lips pushed out thoughtfully as he tapped the bottom of the cup on the table.

Finally, he carried on.

"He was drunk. Looking for you, actually. When I told him you weren't here, he asked me about your mother."

The shock burned up into embarrassment, and it was the most mortifying thing he could think of, his stupid old man calling Francis in a drunken stupor and breaking Francis' heart all over again by asking for a woman that had been long-since gone.

He reached up, and ran fingers through his hair in an effort to appear nonchalant.

"What—what did he say?"

Francis wasn't really smiling anymore, keeping his gaze firmly on the tablecloth in what was obviously a moment of great vulnerability.

"He asked if he could talk to her, because he'd lost his boy and he didn't want her to be mad at him."

_Oh_.

He buried his face in his palms, and resisted the urge to groan in frustration.

Maybe he should have been more concerned for his father and his increasingly strange and unpredictable behavior, but all he could think of now was how much it must have hurt Francis to hear those words. How many memories it must have brought back. How many wounds it must have opened.

As he sat there, shaking his head to himself and feeling more humiliated than he could ever really remember, and so ashamed, Francis snorted, to himself, and tried to move onward.

"That's why I ask. Has he been doing this a lot lately, by any chance?"

Alfred, leaning back in his chair, split his fingers and stared up at the ceiling.

Yeah. Yeah he had. Hadn't his father mistaken him not so long ago for a colonel? And that morning, squinting at him for so long before recognizing him.

Damn.

Just what he needed...

Now, more than ever before, how could he bring himself to stand up to the old man? If the old man was getting _sick_...

Christ, raising his voice up like he wanted might push his father over the edge. Give him a heart attack, or just cause him to shut down all together. Then he'd have to walk around with _that_, feelin' like a fuckin' murderer.

His father had been alright until all of this had started.

Murderer.

"Maybe you should take him to a doctor."

He started, and turned to Francis with wide eyes of guilt.

"I..."

A doctor?

For what? To hear a diagnosis that he might not want to hear? To hear that he might be bound to the old man in another, worse way—that of caretaker? He didn't want to. He was finally getting his life on the path that he wanted. He didn't want to get sidetracked by this.

Not now.

And surely he was a horrible person for it, but God, he didn't want to worry about any of that for now. All of his attention was occupied elsewhere.

Francis saw his silence, and, with a very thin smile, he stood up and walked over to a cabinet, producing another bottle of wine with swift hands.

"Ah, look," Francis began, as he brought up the corkscrew, "Let's not talk about it tonight. You do what want to do, and I'll back you up, whatever you decide. For now, let's just keep drinking."

"That sounds good to me," he finally breathed, in relief, and was more than happy to end that conversation and start up new ones.

Didn't wanna think about any of that now. Wine was a pretty good enabler for forgetting unpleasant things.

The hour was getting late.

It had started to rain outside, a cold, miserable mixture of water and snow, but everything was warm inside, and when his glass was refilled, he no longer had any intentions of leaving Francis' house tonight.

And Francis seemed happy at the prospect.

"Say, you should have brought your friend with you," Francis said, cheeks flushed and the smile on his face sloppy, "Matthew. He's a weird little thing, isn't he? The more the merrier. I don't mind having you guys over every once in a while."

"Why would I bring him? So you guys can sit there and talk about me in French? I know your game."

Francis only smiled.

But, that offer brought forth the thought that suddenly kept popping into Alfred's head...

"Well," he began, trying to appear casual, "maybe next time I'll bring someone else."

"Oh! A new friend?"

After a hesitation, the wine helping him out, Alfred felt the smile spreading over his face.

"Yeah," he said. "You'll like him."

"I'm sure I will," Francis drawled, as he shifted a bit haphazardly. "Especially since you seem to have a knack for picking such handsome friends."

Alfred rolled his eyes.

But inside, just the thought of it was enough to send the adrenaline coursing. Oh, wow, what a thing it would be! To have _him _over for dinner. To have a third person at the table. That would have been something like a walking dream.

Maybe Francis wouldn't have minded.

Maybe.

Once the second bottle was empty, and feeling very warm and very flustered, Alfred, more than a little tipsy, extended conversation to a subject that once would have been way out of his comfort zone, and still _would _be if not for the help of alcohol :

The German.

Francis had opened the door. He was just walking through it.

"Say," he began, airily, "Do you remember that German that the guys on the block used to go after a lot?"

Francis glanced over, a strange half-smile on his face. Not surprising; mentioning Germans, in his experience, had usually never let to anything good, and sometimes even to something a little sinister.

"Which one? There were lots."

A tingle of excitement, at trying to tell someone.

His finger tapped the table.

"The tall one. Used to walk his dog in the park a lot."

"Ah," Francis said, and it didn't really surprise Alfred when he added, "The looker? Tall, blond, blue-eyed?"

Francis usually remembered 'the pretty ones' more than the others.

"Yeah."

"A little. I never talked to him. Why?"

He didn't miss the trepidation on Francis' face, and it made his excitement dull down just a little, knowing that Francis was not expecting to hear something pleasant.

It stung, to think of himself before.

Behind him. All behind him. He had to move forward.

Staircase, going up.

With a deep breath, he tapped his fingers on the table all the faster, and said, slowly, "Well. What if I said that I was thinking of inviting him over for dinner?"

The shock on Francis' face should have been funny.

It wasn't.

It hurt.

Was it something so out of the ordinary for him to do?

"You've been talking to him?" came the incredulous question, and Alfred nodded. "Does your father know?"

"Kind of."

Eh...

An evasive answer.

He tried to shake it off, and, feeling a little confident, he asked, "So, what would you say? Huh? Ha, having a German over for dinner?"

There was a strange silence that dampened his confidence a little.

Francis sat still, trying to keep his gaze focused.

And then he spoke.

"Well, I'm not gonna lie to you, Alfred," Francis began, slurring the ends of words a bit as the wine flowed through his veins, "I have to say, well, just for me, you know, I don't care much for them."

Oh.

Not what he'd expected.

Seeing the furrowing of Alfred's brow, even through his inebriation, Francis was quick to add, "But, that being said, that's just me! God knows, I mean, if you wanted to—that's your decision, you know? I know it's probably not right, but damn, still thinking about them marching all over Paris, it still gets me a little riled."

Of course.

Marching on Paris. Dropping the bombs from above that had killed his parents. Francis, like his father, had motives that lied in war.

And for a moment, Alfred wanted to be a child again, so that he could stomp his foot and cry, 'can't adults ever stop making everything about _war_?'

War was war.

Bad things happened in war. But that didn't mean that all people were bad, even if they'd lost.

Matthew told him once that 'history's written by the heroes, and heroes always need bad guys'.

There weren't any bad guys now. Just people trying to move forward. Not everything had to be about what had happened during a war.

Let it go.

But he didn't have a chance to open his mouth; Francis, always able to sense the shifting of a mood, went into damage control.

"Not to say he isn't a good person! I don't know him—hell, he's probably a great guy. I try to avoid that side when I can. They don't care much for me, either. French and Germans, you know, kind of weird. But, like I said, that's your decision. I think it's really great, what you're doing! When I said I'd support you, I meant for everything. I'd never shut the door, if you really do want to bring him by. I'm never a rude host, so don't worry about that. Your friends are my friends."

Well, that was little comforting.

The most he could really hope for, he supposed. A hell of a lot better than the hostility from the other side.

Looking him up and down with a fond eye, Francis broke into a smile.

"That's something your mother would have done, you know? She was always trying to help people... You really do remind me so much of her."

The look of adoration in Francis' eyes was both exhilarating, and a little disappointing.

Those gloomy thoughts came back.

Because, sometimes, he wasn't sure if he was really Alfred to Francis, or just his mother. Who did Francis see when he looked at him? If his mother was still alive, would Francis want to spend time with him?

Or, if his mother was still alive, would Francis look at him and just see his father?

Maybe he was reading too much into it, or maybe he was insecure, but sometimes...

Sometimes, he couldn't help but wonder.

He probably shouldn't have worried about it. All hypothetical, and it was what it was. Regardless, he still loved his uncle, and it was enough to know that his uncle loved him.

No matter what. Support. That was what he needed.

Maybe not the glowing, proud words of admiration that he had been hoping for, but enough.

Tipsiness slowly gave way to inebriation.

Francis started to tell bad jokes and stories that usually ended up in innuendos, giggling away helplessly as he reached out and slapped Alfred on the back every so often, and Alfred couldn't help but laugh along.

Almost midnight.

And even though he was smiling now, and even though he had to lie his head on the table to keep it from swimming, Alfred still couldn't help but think about it, and still knew.

Francis didn't really _understand_. He didn't get it.

Him and the German.

Francis thought it was charity. A project Alfred was taking up in an effort to distance himself from his father. A game.

It was so much more than that.

How could be possibly make Francis understand, when there was no way he'd ever be able to open up his mouth and explain in words how much all of this _meant _to him?

How much it meant. How much it hurt.

And even if he _were _so eloquent, his pride would not allow him to speak the words that were in his head, and even thinking about standing in front of anyone and trying to explain and expose some kind of vulnerability within himself, putting everything he had right on his sleeve, oh _God_!

He would never be able to say it. It was so _easy _to speak for other people. But he couldn't speak for himself.

He couldn't ever put into words the _feeling _of picking the German up off the street. He couldn't possibly describe the way his heart had soared when he had almost been given a smile. He couldn't ever write down the way his chest had ached when the medal had exchanged hands.

His curse.

It wasn't Francis' fault that he didn't understand. Who ever could, when he couldn't _say _it?

Francis' giggles finally died down into whispers, and then murmurs, and then nothing at all, as he succumbed to too much alcohol.

Alfred made it up to his feet somehow, and managed to stagger into his mother's old room before he collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep.

Rain fell outside.

In the morning, he pushed aside his headache, set the bed back the way it had been, and set out into the cold, wet streets, as reluctant to go home as he usually was.

This time, his reluctance was fueled by guilt.

He didn't really care to see the old man falling apart.

_Maybe you should take him to the doctor._

No.

He'd wait, and see how things played out. Only as a last resort would he risk the possibility of being bound to the old son of a bitch for longer than he had anticipated.

He didn't want him _dead_. He just didn't want to _see _him anymore.

But if his father was getting sick in some way (probably all the booze), then there was a chance that maybe he'd have to see him more often than he was now.

And that was not preferable.

As the days passed and the New Year came creeping ever closer, he found himself wandering the streets a lot, spending most of his time with Matthew or Francis and playing a very intense game of hide-and-seek with Alice, who seemed determined to leap out from shadows and hunt him down come hell or high water.

But her high brow usually worked in his favor, and most of the time she was too reluctant to step into the mud and sludge to tail after him when he started running.

He stepped into the other side of town when he felt safe enough, but he usually found himself disappointed.

The German wasn't ever out.

Not in the shop. Not in the streets. No doubt he was off for the rest of the holiday, and taking some well-deserved time to relax and get some sleep, but it was a little disappointing all the same.

He had wanted to kick the ball a little farther and hazard an out of the blue, 'Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow night?'

But he was nowhere to be found.

He thought sometimes about knocking on the door, but decided against it. He wasn't really looking forward to finding himself back in front of the German's bellowing, crazy friend or roommate or whatever the hell he was.

Last time, he had a feeling he'd been a breath away from being on the wrong end of a flying tackle.

That might be a step backwards.

He tried to stay positive in light of the changing of the year, and was eager to be able to start a new one and put this one firmly in the past.

He made a list of resolutions in his head, and tried to be patient. With patience and determination, things would play out like he wanted them to. He wouldn't falter, and he wouldn't give up.

It was reassuring that, if he needed it, he had fallbacks in the forms of Matthew and Francis, who were always ready to stand by his side and reconfirm his faith in himself.

Days passed.

The weather was more miserable than usual.

Never any reprieve from the rain and snow and sleet.

But the city was alive on the last night in December.

Crowded streets.

On New Year's eve, he found himself wandering the streets alone, pushing through the crowds, hands tucked in his pockets and damp from sleet.

Solitary.

Not for lack of offers; Francis and Matthew had invited him to their houses, his father had asked him to stay home, and some of the girls from school had called him up and invited him to parties. Alice called, too, and offered to come keep him company.

He refused. He wanted to be alone.

The city was loud as hell in the main streets, as people crowded as close as they could together and babbled away and stared up at the sky as the fireworks shot up and over the skyline, absorbed in each other and the fun of the night. Ready and willing to spend several hours in the cold to wait for the ball to drop over Times Square. Music, reporters, plenty of cameras.

He was usually front and center in these celebrations.

This year, too much melancholy.

He didn't feel like being rowdy, like the crowd around him.

He cut through them, and drifted into the quieter streets, taking a little comfort in the dim light and silence, as the glow in the distance called the city out to play. He wandered about without really thinking about it, letting his feet lead him where they would. And where they led him, in the end, didn't really surprise him much.

He walked the streets that had now become familiar to him.

Past the closed market, the little German store, past the dark alleys and the quiet houses.

Places he had come to look forward to.

The dark streets were lit up in passing intervals by the fireworks above, and he took advantage of the bright bursts to lift his head, and look around.

Just in case.

It was easy, in this cold, sleeting mess, to just feel miserable and disheartened, but he retreated up into his head, and it was with a sense of dreamy tranquility that he took sight of familiar landmarks, went back in time, and tried to imagine how things would be different now, if he'd done something different then.

The German would have been smiling long ago, that was for sure.

In moments like these, living up in his head was a little better. His own little world.

Stepping in puddles, jacket already soaked, hair sticking to his scalp and glasses foggy, he was still smiling.

Things would get better.

But sometimes, things still caught him off guard. Sometimes, there were dismal reminders that not everyone could stand back, and think for themselves.

It was when he passed by the old street that had _that incident _attached to it, head low and shivering a little, damp and cold, that he saw the shadows moving on the side.

Lurching in the darkness.

Slowing his step, he turned his head in a burst of alarm, tensing his shoulders and clenching his fists.

Who knew what lurked in these streets at night? Manhattan was dangerous in the dark. But nothing ran out at him, and there was no one tailing him.

And then a great firework burst above, lighting the street up pale pink.

He saw it.

Old Schulze's house.

And on the doorstep, under cover of darkness and giggling away, was a kid.

Another firework lit up the sky, and he could see what the little hellion was up to.

The sound and smell of spray-paint.

Alfred squinted his eyes, and saw.

The kid had painted the entire door, from top to bottom, with dozens of little swastikas. For a moment, he was too stunned to move, and the kid, looking over either shoulder, hadn't seen him standing there on the other side of the street. He was still giggling, nervously, knowing that he was doing something he shouldn't. He had been dared to, perhaps.

Alfred was suddenly out of his head, and crashing down to earth.

A rush.

The anger blazed up, and so did the horror. Because it was like looking at himself. It wasn't some little punk standing there, spray-paint in hand.

It was _him_.

It was him. All over again. _Oh_, the stupid things he had done. All the things he'd _done_.

To this old woman, who had been so sweet to him when he'd been younger. Who had offered kindness. And what had he given in return?

Hate.

Pain.

Seeing himself standing there, painting a swastika on that door, and seeing her crying so hard afterwards...

He hated himself. More than he hated his father. More than he hated his former friends.

He hated himself the most.

Pulling his hands from his pockets, he straightened his back and marched across the streets, his boots heavy on the pavement, and by the time he was noticed, it was too late.

He was too angry to just let it go.

The kid saw him coming, and made a motion to run.

Alfred was too fast.

It was just a boy, ten or twelve, and that was the only thing that kept Alfred from decking him and knockin' him the fuck out, but he still grabbed the little brat by the collar and gave him a firm, ruthless shake, nearly lifting him off the ground as he cried, angrily, "What the hell are ya _doin'_, you little bastard? Huh? What's wrong with you? Did your mama teach you to pick on little old ladies? _Huh_? Did she?"

The boy stared up at him in terror.

Alfred shook him again.

He shook the kid so hard because he wished he could go back and shake himself. He _wished _that someone had shaken him, then, instead of cajoling him. He wished somebody had knocked some sense into him, instead of him having to find it himself.

The can slipped from the kid's hand and rolled down the steps, falling into the gutter, and it was only when the kid began to cry that Alfred let go of his collar and set him down, and the brat turned on his heel to run off. Alfred slapped him across the back of the head as hard as he could as a parting gift.

Teach the kid a lesson now, before he wound up running on the wrong side.

Footsteps pattering down the street.

He stood there, chest heaving as the anger coursed through his veins, and his face was red long after he had been left alone on the street.

Only when he saw the flutter of the curtain, was he able to drag himself from irate immobility, and he looked up to see the corner of the blind pushed aside. Someone was watching him.

The old woman.

When his eyes settled on the window, the blind closed and the curtain was swiftly drawn again. And for a moment, his knees threatened to give out from beneath him, and it was the most crushing feeling imaginable, to know that she was so _afraid _of him now.

She was afraid of him.

He would have given anything to go back in time, when she stood there on the step, smiling through her wrinkles, leaning forward and saying to him with that thick accent, 'So, how were your marks today?'

Marks. She'd always said marks. Never grades.

He'd pull out the test, and her face lit up and her brow lifted when she saw the '100'.

'You're so smart! You keep learning, yeah? It's very important.'

A candy in his hand, and he had been shoved off on his way.

All of that was gone.

He'd stopped learning, for a while there. She was afraid of him now.

It was this knowledge, and a burning desire to get rid of the image in his head of himself doing the same thing years ago, that he found his footing and hopped down the soaking stairs, darting through the empty streets and back into the massive crowd, not stopping until he had found someone who was willing to give him what he wanted.

A few dollars poorer and a bucket of turpentine later, he went back the way he'd come from, a few dry cloths stuffed in his pockets and probably coming down with a cold from prolonged exposure to cold and sleet.

The people screaming in the distance and the chanting of songs and declarations felt a million miles away on this cold, dark little street, where people stayed inside their houses, content to watch the happenings on the CBS channel.

He was glad the street was empty.

So that no one would see him in a moment of humble vulnerability, as he crept up Mrs. Schulze's steps as quietly as a mouse, set the cloths and can down, popped off the top, and set to work.

As he dipped a cloth into the sharp liquid, he brought it up, and when he started to scrub away the paint, he tried to imagine that he was scrubbing away his own mistakes along with it.

Idiot. Such an idiot.

He brought the cloth up and down, but it took a strong hand and many swipes to get the paint to start dissolving, and when he had only gotten rid of one little swastika, his brow was soaked, and not from the sleet.

But, no matter how long it took or how his arms ached, he wouldn't stop. The ball would probably be plunging down before he was done.

He didn't bother to look up and see if he was being watched, and he wasn't going to knock on the door and try to sputter something lame. She was scared of him, and he wasn't going to cause her any more duress.

Just get done, and get out.

The sky lit up in pink and green. Sleet kept falling.

He worked as quietly as he could while still keeping his hands firm, and when he bent down, re-soaking his cloth and wiping off his brow on his sleeve, something caught his eye.

A shadow at his side, and when he straightened up, cloth in hand and a little weary, he realized that someone was standing beside of him.

Stillness and silence.

He couldn't help but break into a breathless smile, despite the dreary weather and the shame and the guilt.

Suddenly, he was alive with adrenaline.

The pale-eyed German stood at his side, tall and calm and wrapped in a coat that was far too big, and, after a second of silent staring, he rolled up his sleeves, and bent over, taking up a spare cloth from the step and soaking it in the turpentine.

Alfred didn't speak, content to keep working and watch from the corner of his eye as the German brought the cloth to the door and began to scrub away.

For a second, he didn't really remember what he was doing, and his hands were really moving automatically.

Cloud nine.

This was more than he'd hoped for. More than he could have asked for. After so much trouble and so much work and so much stress, having this quiet, unusual man walk up to him of his own free-will was just...

He couldn't even think of words.

Once again at a loss, tongue-tied and sinking into ineloquence.

But this time, it didn't matter. The German was not asking him for conversation. It was something more than that.

So much more.

They met each others' eyes on occasion, and Alfred was fairly certain that he was smiling in a ridiculous fashion, but there was no way he'd be able to wipe it from his face, so he didn't even try.

They carried on.

No words.

They gripped the cloths in their hands, and scrubbed up and down, glancing at each other from time to time, working in silent unison until the paint finally began to dissolve, running down the door in black streams.

It occurred to Alfred, as the German reached down to soak his cloth again, that the expression on his face was endearingly serious.

All work. Total concentration.

Gentle hands.

Like he was restoring the _Mona Lisa_, instead of scrubbing a door clean.

It was then, maybe, watching him silently work, that Alfred finally understood (not fully, but a little) how much it must have _hurt _him—all of them!—to be called that word, and to be labeled with that symbol.

Why old Mrs. Schulze had burst into tears that day. Why the tall, handsome blond's cool eyes had blazed in anger every time that word had been tossed at him.

It hurt.

Both their sense of pride in themselves, and their pride in their motherland.

He wouldn't pretend that he truly understood, but he grasped, however distantly, that that word must have cut deeper than any knife.

He felt shamed, and even a little meek. It was still a little stunning, at times, to realize that he was not always right, and that he didn't really know everything.

It was this feeling of inadequacy that led him to finally open his mouth.

"So, what brings you out here?" he managed, his voice strong and sure even though his hands trembled as he hid them in the cloth.

For a moment, he didn't think he'd get an answer, and the way the German's brow was lowered in concentration, he wasn't entirely sure that he'd even been heard at all.

But then a low, deep rumble.

"Just wanted to see the lights."

A cool look was cast his way, and it was clear that the German was content to leave it at that.

Well...

"Well, lucky for me I guess. I'd've been out here all night."

He kept his voice a whisper, so as not to disturb the households.

The German only gave a quick, "Hm."

With two, the work went a lot faster. It was still a ways before midnight when they finally started to finish up.

Looked good.

The door was cleaner than it had been before, by the time they got done with it, and when every trace of paint was gone, Alfred took a step back, observing their work with a sharp eye and taking up a dry towel to rub his hands free of the turpentine.

No one would have ever known the paint had been there.

The guilt of his own trespasses dissipated.

He felt pretty good. Pretty goddamn good.

Finally, after a silence, as bursts of light from the fireworks above lit up the streets, Alfred said, without looking over, "Thanks."

Silence.

A great thunder above as fireworks exploded.

Sparing a glance at his counterpart, Alfred saw that he had finished wiping his hands and had turned his back to the door, staring up at the horizon as the lights changed colors.

His hair had come loose in the sleet, falling into his eyes.

Alfred took note that, damp and unkempt and smelling like paint thinner, the German wasn't quite as overwhelming and intimidating, especially gazing up at fireworks like a dreamy kid.

"Hey," he said, going out on a limb, "There's still time. Do you wanna go watch the ball drop?"

Still staring upward, arms crossed over his chest and face as calm and stoic as it usually was, the German only answered with another enigmatic, "Hm."

After nothing else came, Alfred shook his head, smiling.

"I'll take that as a 'no'."

Well, time to go home then. He'd probably overstayed his welcome outside this house.

He turned around and knelt down, cleaning the last of the turpentine from his hands as he meant to gather up the items and prepare to depart.

He was prepared to resume his wanderings alone.

Same old.

A quick, light touch on his shoulder came out of nowhere.

The brush was only for a second, and when he looked up, startled, he was caught under a cool, alert gaze, and then there was a whisper that barely rose above the sleet battering the sidewalk.

"Ludwig."

Dumbfounded, he could only utter, "H-huh?" and his heart raced in his chest when he realized that the German was _speaking _to him.

Speaking.

He rubbed his hands in the cloth long after they were clean, too dumb with adrenaline to move, as still as a rock.

"What?"

A hesitant silence.

"Ludwig," the blond finally repeated, and then he backed away, and his expression belied a certain nervousness, as he tucked his hands behind his back. "My name," he added, at Alfred's look of complete confusion, "Ludwig."

Alfred was frozen for a moment, and then came back to earth with a loud, "Oh!" and pulled himself up to his feet.

And then the realization _really _hit him, and it was like lightening; he broke into a grin so wide that he had to squint his eyes to accommodate it, and placed his hands on his hips. "Say," he began, "You're really tellin' me your name? I don't believe it!" The excitement was nearly overwhelming, and for a moment, he was proud that he had kept composure as well as he had.

It would have been very easy to stomp his foot in triumph, and laugh to the sky.

Instead, he extended his hand, in what would be the first handshake ever exchanged between them, the first real commiseration, the first willful and completely mutual contact. He was all but bristling with exhilaration.

His excitement dulled just a little when the German leaned back automatically, in a perhaps instilled response to get as far away from his hand as possible. A flinch.

He flinched.

Ignoring the ache in his heart, Alfred pressed forward, too close now to back off, adding amicably, "I'm Alfred. It's...great to meet you. Ludwick."

He tried to keep his hand steady as he held it out and waited.

_Oh_! Come on!

So close...

No movement, and for a second, his heart started to sink.

The German looked frozen. Uncertain. Maybe even a little frightened, staring down at his hand as thought it would bite.

Fireworks burst overhead.

His hand began to lower, a little, in disappointment.

Maybe it was still too soon.

But, then again, maybe the New Year would be better for him than he had thought.

After a hesitation that felt like an eternity, the German finally inhaled a great, deep breath, as though he was about to dive into the sea, and then reached out, taking the offered hand in a firm grip, and Alfred's smile returned like the sun.

The German finally found his voice again, and murmured, lowly, "It's Ludwig."

"Eh?"

"Ludwig."

"That's what I said, wasn't it? Ludwick?"

"No, no, _Ludwig_."

"I'm just not hearing the difference."

"Ludwig."

"Ludwick."

"Ludwig!"

"Ludwig?"

The German froze, open-mouthed, and then, almost surprised, nodded his head.

Alfred's heart was pounding so hard in his chest he was afraid he would faint.

"Ludwig," he repeated, mostly to himself, and even as the unusual, soft hiss of a 'g' was strange on his tongue, he considered the possibility that surely he was dreaming.

Too good to be true.

Ludwig.

His name was Ludwig.

Ludwig stood there for a second, straight as a board, hands tucked behind his back and shoulders shifting up and down anxiously, and then, without another word, he turned on his heel and sped off down the steps, disappearing into the shadows, and Alfred was too stunned and overwhelmed to go after him.

He didn't need to.

That had been enough.

The German—Ludwig!—would not have responded to that anyway.

He had said all he had wanted to, and nothing more. He would talk again when he was ready.

And by God, what a feeling it was that ran through him as he took up the can with shaking hands, too enthralled to really care too much about where he was going next, and he barely realized when he tossed the can and the towels into some dumpster in an alley.

Walking in the clouds.

Dirty streets were no problem.

Because they had met each other.

_Really _met each other, and there had been no hatred in the blond's deep, smooth voice. No animosity. No pain. No _fear_.

He found himself wandering into the main streets before long, sinking back into the shouting and bouncing crowd, and his heart soared the entire night, as he gave in to his adrenaline and happiness, and he merged in with the people beside of him and roared in the New Year as loudly and as energetically as he had every other year.

This time, though, he had a real reason to look forward to it.

Christ almighty, there was nothing like it.

Nothing.

Not a thing in the world.

And for the very first time in his life, as he mingled and babbled mindlessly away with the crowd pressing against him, there was no voice in the back of his head trying to convince him that Germans were evil, no whispers in his subconscious that fought to reassure him that he had never done anything wrong.

Nothing.

For the first time in his life, he forgot everything his father had ever taught him.


	11. Kettenbrücke-Walzer

**A/N **: See? Told you I'd come back. Took a lot longer than I might have promised, but, hey. Better late than never, right? Assuming any of you guys have actually waited, I would like to say thanks for your patience. And thanks as always to **OrangePlum** for being awesome with her comic. :D

Alfred gets two chapters in a row, since Ludwig's last one was double the length. I'm excited to start this up again. Forgot how much I loved writing this one. You'll have to bear with me until I get back into the swing, though. :)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

**Kettenbrücke-Walzer**

He hadn't ever really been sure whether or not he believed in heaven.

His father had told him all about it, when he had been small. It had seemed comforting then, sitting on his father's lap and burying his face into the comforting smell of his shirt, as his father had explained heaven and hell and what you had to do to get into each one. His mother, of course, had gone to heaven, because she had been a good person, having never wronged anyone in her short life. His grandparents had gone to heaven. His father, when he died, would go to heaven too, because heroes always went to heaven.

Comforting.

At least then.

The older he got, and the more he started really thinking about, heaven seemed less of a comfort and more of an uncertainty.

One of his father's old war buddies had died from a very likely shot liver, when Alfred was fourteen, and he remembered his father sitting there in one of the black-draped chairs before the casket, looking dismal. Afterwards, his father had stood up, gone to the widow, put a hand on her shoulder and said, quietly, 'Jimmy's in heaven now, Jane, so don't cry so much.'

But as he had looked her, Alfred had realized that she wasn't really crying that much at all.

Suddenly it hit him, really hit him, because he remembered that woman, remembered seeing her so often, sporting her black sunglasses that nearly covered her entire face, her scarf tied around her neck, never taking them off so that no one would notice the bruises, and, _God_, if Jimmy really had gone to heaven, then maybe heaven wasn't somewhere that Alfred would really have wanted to be.

His father had never hit his mother, Francis had assured him of that, but if his father thought that that man had deserved ascending into the clouds, then his declarations of a better place quickly lost their meaning.

After a while, Alfred started to think that, maybe, heaven was just another story that his father had spun, like all the other ones. Glitzy and exciting, yeah, but overblown and exaggerated. Hot air.

It was _nice_ to think that his sweet mother had been rewarded, had been given eternity to make up for her stolen years on earth, it really was. It had made her death a little easier to accept when he was young. It had softened the blow. His father had needed to believe that, had needed to believe such things, because his father was too weak to go on without some kind of reassurance. His father couldn't handle the fact that maybe, just maybe, his wife had just _died_ and that he wouldn't ever see her again, no matter how many years passed, that she wasn't waiting in the sky, that maybe she had just gone out like a match and that was that. You could still smell smoke after it had vanished, but that didn't mean it was still there.

His father believed in heaven because the alternative seemed too dreary and hopeless.

Bleak.

Somehow...

The more and more Alfred thought about it, the more and more he was sure that it was just a story. If heaven and hell and God were all real, then the world wouldn't be so fuckin' crazy, would it? If God were real, then mankind wouldn't be so cruel. The world would make sense. Maybe some people really needed to believe that life was just some test, some right of passage, where their actions would be rewarded and they would be exalted.

His father had said, all the time, that the Allies won the war because God was on their side.

That hadn't ever really made much sense to him, because he remembered old radio broadcasts from the war, where Hitler and Mussolini claimed, so fervently, that God was on _their_ side.

If _that_ God was real, then he was just fuckin' with the entire universe.

And Alfred would rather not believe in something like that.

He went on, after that, and decided that the best thing to do was to live life to the fullest and not worry about what happened after death. If he was wrong and heaven was real, then he would still have been a good person, and would surely be let in. If he was right and there was no such thing, then he would die with no regrets, knowing that he had made every moment worth it.

Alfred hadn't ever really been sure whether or not he believed in heaven, but now, suddenly, it didn't seem to matter so much.

No heaven could ever have made him feel as good as that single word had. No heaven could ever have lived up to the expectations that had been set down here. Let heaven wait, if it was there; he'd take this present, and wouldn't even bother looking back.

Nothing up there in the clouds could ever be worth more than hearing Ludwig's voice so close to his ear.

To feel that hand upon his shoulder, a fleeting second of something that _felt_ like heaven, to be sought out voluntarily.

Nothing.

This was heaven. The instant that Ludwig had taken his hand within his own, this time and place had become heaven.

He sat on the stone steps in front of his house, pulling on his still damp boots, and he was so giddy with excitement that it was taking him an extraordinary amount of time to tie the damn things.

Kept slipping up.

When he had woken up that morning, the world had suddenly seemed a little brighter.

Footsteps on the sidewalk didn't even draw his attention, nor did the shadow that fell over him, and he would never have realized that he wasn't alone if someone hadn't spoken.

"Didn't know you were off today."

He glanced up, quickly, but it was only Matthew.

Dressed neatly, as always, he was staring down at Alfred with a strange look, and tucked a hand into his pocket as he gave a half-hearted smile. Hadn't seen Matthew for a while, now. Hadn't really even thought about it. Odd, hearing his voice.

No doubt the statement had been meant to bring Alfred back down to earth a little.

Didn't work.

Alfred gave a snort, and turned his eyes back down to his stubborn boots.

"I'm not," was his airy reply, and Matthew was surely shaking his head.

"Feel like gettin' fired, huh?"

Alfred shrugged a shoulder. "Don't care much."

Truthfully, he didn't. He didn't give a damn if they fired him or not, because he had something else he'd rather be doing right now, and nothing in the world could have distracted him from it.

His name was Ludwig.

"Well," Matthew finally continued, a bit hopefully, "If you're playing hooky, why don't we go downtown for a while? It's been a long time since we've done something together."

He didn't even stop to think about it, quickly saying, "Sorry. Got somethin' to do."

He could feel Matthew's eyes upon him.

Together. Together was a notion that had been consuming his brain for a while now alright, but, unfortunately, the only 'together' that he was really interested in at the moment was the 'together' that included Ludwig.

No one else.

A long, rather stiff hesitation, and then Matthew spoke again.

"Goin' out there again, Alfred?"

Dreamy and still feeling rather dazed, Alfred finally laced up his boots and drawled, "Yup."

A short silence above him, and Matthew gave a little sigh. "Well. I thought instead... Ah, never mind. You know. Be careful, I guess. Have fun."

"Sure," he replied, still far up in the atmosphere, and he hardly noticed that Matthew lingered a little, and then finally turned and wandered off.

By the time he hauled himself up off the stone steps and looked up, Matthew was long gone.

He didn't dwell on it much.

Matthew didn't need him around every day. Ludwig did, perhaps.

All the same, the word 'fun' hadn't exactly been enthusiastic as it had dropped from Matthew's lips. More like melancholy, maybe exasperation. Kinda sad. Like he had lost something.

In a way, Alfred supposed, he had.

Matthew probably hadn't expected it to go this far, and he certainly hadn't expected Alfred to take to the German so much that he would end up being replaced.

Replaced.

...was that was he was doing?

True, ever since his interest in the German had grown, he had been seeing less and less of Matthew. Sought him out less and less. Thought about him less and less, too, it seemed. That hadn't been his intention. Never had been. This whole thing had just snuck up on him, so much faster than he had thought it would, and maybe he had gotten swept up in it so quickly that he had forgotten Matthew was still out in the surf, too.

It could have just been a passing distraction; maybe once he and Ludwig were settled more into their friendship, he could turn his eyes back and focus his attention between the both of them.

But then, maybe that was just how it all worked. Maybe when a new friendship came along, sometimes you just kind of forgot about the ones you had had before. New relationships often meant the deterioration of old ones, didn't they?

He didn't want that.

He wanted Ludwig, hell yeah he did, more than anything, but he didn't want to lose Matthew in the process.

Well...

Matthew was patient. Matthew understood how important this was to him. Matthew could just wait a little longer. It had been Matthew who had prodded him onward, so Matthew could do the responsible thing and wait.

He couldn't help but wonder, though, if Matthew was getting jealous.

The old man sure as hell was.

As he bounded off, too energetic to walk steady, he could feel eyes on his back, and knew his father was watching him from the window.

It should have worried him, but he was confident enough in himself to think that he could call off the old man if it had really come down to it. In his state now, he probably couldn't even fight anymore. Alfred was likely the stronger one.

So he didn't spend time fretting too much.

He kept his father in the back of his mind now, because the front of it was occupied completely by the German. The German, who had come to him, who had spoken to him.

Ludwig.

Heaven.

No amount of cold or sleet or stagnant puddles could ruin his enthusiasm, and he tromped through the messy streets in this already fantastic new year, lunging into the crowds and pushing his way towards that unseen beacon that lured him.

He stepped into _their_ side of town now as easily as if it were his own. He had been welcomed here by one of them, after all, so he could come here now.

As far as he was concerned.

Most of them avoided him, but that didn't bother him anymore, because when he went back onto that old street, he found there exactly what he had wanted.

Too easily.

Maybe Ludwig had been waiting for him.

Hoping, too.

Ludwig was easy to see against the dreary backdrop, so pristine and bright, despite the shadows under his eyes, and he didn't really seem to be _doing _anything when Alfred spotted him; looking rather lost, he seemed to be wandering from one end of the block to the other, as if he had left something behind and couldn't seem to find it.

Alfred liked to think (and maybe he was right) that Ludwig was just exploring the same few feet of sidewalk so that Alfred wouldn't have to look too hard to find him.

And he was actually _sure_, as he drew ever closer and Ludwig just walked in circles, that that was exactly what he was doing.

He couldn't ever really understand the things he felt in that moment, when his foot landed heavily on the street and Ludwig looked up, bright eyes catching fire in the sun, and their gazes locked. As if Ludwig somehow knew, as much as he did, when they were drawing nearer each other. As if Ludwig sensed him somehow, or maybe Ludwig knew the weight of his footsteps or the particular sheen of his jacket. Maybe Ludwig recognized the way the light hit his hair, or maybe he could pick out the way he smelled from the rest of the bustling crowd.

As Alfred knew well the sight of Ludwig, in the midst of hundreds of others, Ludwig seemed to be perfectly capable of the same feat.

Could anyone have understood such a thing except for them?

The confused circling suddenly stopped, and Ludwig fell still where he stood.

Alfred was momentarily so dazed by the sight of him that he didn't realize he was still standing in the gutter, and he barely jumped out of the way as an angry cab came straight at him. Alfred yelped at the dirty water that splashed onto his back, and he whirled around to shriek obscenities at the car that had nearly taken him out.

People were so fuckin' impatient around here!

Ludwig straightened up, put his hands in his pockets, and just shook his head.

Probably thinking, 'It had to be _this _guy, huh?'

Trying to gather up his dignity, Alfred hopped onto the sidewalk, heart racing, and just jerked a thumb back at the long-gone cab. "Man!" he said, in an effort to regain a little composure, "Jerks, I tell ya!"

Ludwig, quiet as he was, only turned to the side, and started walking.

Alfred assumed it was an invitation to settle in side by side, and did just that.

Maybe the damn car _had _hit him, because this sure felt like a dream. A damn good one.

He was painfully aware that his backside was soaked with gutter-water, but hey—Ludwig didn't seem to care, so neither did he.

He couldn't seem to get enough of saying that name.

Ludwig.

Ludwig, Ludwig, Ludwig.

Coulda said it all day long.

Alfred opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and promptly shut it again. Blabbering away was usually his go to, but this time...

Somehow, he was content enough just to walk at Ludwig's side, and enjoy the company.

In lieu of speaking, he decided to observe.

The first thing that struck him was that Ludwig looked better. Not good, not really, but better. Actually, he looked a hell of a lot better than he had mere weeks ago, and it would have been hard for someone who didn't know him to realize that he had nearly been dead not so long ago. He was still pale and still rather heavy-eyed, but that could have easily been mistaken for a cold or a little insomnia.

No one would have guessed.

That made Alfred _happy_.

An odd feeling as of late.

Even Ludwig's hair seemed brighter, if at all possible, like it had perked up as much as the rest of him. The garments he wore now seemed to fit a little better. Not so loose. Ludwig's clothes were a little neater than they had been, too, as if he had upped the quality a little of the fabric that he wore, and the scent was different as well. A little spicy. Cologne? Ludwig hadn't ever worn it before. Maybe it was embedded in the clothing, from days long gone when Ludwig had actually given a damn.

A thought struck him then that made his smile fall a little.

Ludwig had started wearing good clothes, perhaps, because no one was pummeling him into the dirt anymore. Those clothes must have been in his closet for years.

That hurt.

Glancing over at his silent counterpart, Alfred finally dared himself to speak, and said, simply, "You look good."

Ludwig didn't respond or look over, but Alfred could see, in the way he lifted his chin a little, that the compliment was accepted and appreciated.

It felt as good for him to say it as it must have been for Ludwig to hear it.

That was all they spoke that day.

He still went home and rested his hands behind his head as he smiled stupidly at the ceiling all night long.

A few days and one barely salvaged occupation later, he set out again.

The same routine.

Ludwig was wandering in circles in that same spot, and when he saw Alfred, something swirled in his eyes, whether he meant it to or not. Relief, maybe, or contentment. Whatever it was, Alfred hardly cared; as long as Ludwig kept waiting for him.

As before, they walked.

And the next time, too.

Each time, Alfred spoke a little more, and every so often, Ludwig would look over at him and utter a word here and there.

Some days, they found themselves walking together, side by side in the street, and yet neither one of them could really seem to remember exactly how they had come across each other or why.

Each time, Ludwig spoke up a little more.

In their third week of this ritual, Ludwig finally took a deep breath, and spoke before Alfred did.

Heaven was the only word for it.

They talked, now.

A little.

Not as easily as friends should have, but they held small conversations, and Alfred was steadily prying more information out of Ludwig with every encounter. Nothing grand. Just a few details. What kind of things he enjoyed, shows and music and the like. How old he was. His birthday.

Little things.

They still meant the world, somehow.

Ludwig looked so _lonely_; it had to have felt good, to say a little of this aloud and feel connected to somebody and get back into the world.

Matthew didn't even cross Alfred's mind, in those moments when he spoke to Ludwig.

He grew a little bolder each time.

Once, Alfred asked, "How come you left Germany, if ya don't mind me askin'?"

From the look Ludwig had sent him then, it was obvious that he _did_ mind, and when he said, rather snippily, "Because I felt like it," it was clear that he had no intention of answering _that _question.

A little disappointed, Alfred had only turned his eyes down, and pursed his lips.

It was still so difficult to determine what was and wasn't out of bounds for Ludwig, what subjects could be approached and which were forbidden, where the lines in the sand were drawn and how flexible the borders were.

Trial and error was all he could do, and hell, he didn't mind. As long as Ludwig still walked with him, and as long as he knew that Ludwig was doing alright.

Sometimes, though...

He kinda wished that he had just never opened his mouth in the first place.

"So," he finally asked, one rainy day, "You got any family here? I mean, don't you have any brothers or sisters or anything this side?"

He didn't ask about a father—he knew that answer already.

Ludwig hesitated a little, keeping pace with him in the slick streets, and cast him a weary glance, but eventually, he just shook his head.

"I'm alone here."

Alfred could sense his unease, but still he pressed anyway.

How sad—no one to go to. No one attached to him. Who could live like that?

"Well, what about back in Germany? No one there, either? You didn't have any family at all?"

An odd pause, as Ludwig found the ground suddenly very interesting, and after a while, he shrugged a shoulder, and finally muttered, "A brother."

Alfred couldn't help but smile.

Brother, huh? Ludwig, stern, patient Ludwig, a brother.

Cute.

The deep timbre of Ludwig's voice was scarcely audible over the rain, and Alfred should have taken that as a hint to drop the subject and back off before he went too far. But, like always, he _pressed_, and tried his luck.

Couldn't help it. Oh, man, the sound of Ludwig's voice was still so entrancing. He'd do anything he could to make Ludwig speak more, if only to hear the sound of his voice. No one else could ever have emulated that accent, met that same rumbling pitch, pronounced words exactly as he could.

No one.

"Younger?" he asked, stubbornly. "You ever see him? Don't you talk to him anymore?"

He should've shut his mouth earlier, but it just kept on a runnin'. A curse of his.

Ludwig's look turned a little dark.

"Older." Another hesitation, and then Ludwig scoffed. "He's dead, so it doesn't matter."

Oh—

"Oh, oh shit. I'm...sorry. I'm really sorry."

Quit while you're ahead, Alfred, that was what Matthew always told him. He never fuckin' listened. Never. Always put his foot in his mouth.

Ludwig glanced over, and then away again, muttering, "You didn't know."

Shit.

Reaching up to scratch at his wet hair, Alfred hesitated, knowing that it was wrong to ask, and yet still, _still_, he just couldn't really resist.

"What hap— Well, I mean, if you don't mind me asking, that is... How?"

Stupid.

So stupid.

Luckily, Ludwig didn't punch him in the nose or call him an insensitive bastard, and actually, somehow, maybe he looked a little...

"He was a soldier. He went into Russia. Got caught. He never came back."

...relieved.

As if, maybe, he had been dying to talk to somebody about it, but hadn't ever been brave enough to put it out there. Relieved that somebody had asked. Relieved that somebody gave a damn. Relieved that somebody _wanted_ to know.

"Sorry," Alfred said again, but Ludwig was hardly listening to him anymore.

In his own little world, now.

Without prompting, Ludwig added, heavily, "My father used to pretend that he was still alive, you know? Since...they never found him. My mother never— She never pretended. She knew. She said she could feel it, that he was dead."

He should never have asked.

Seeing Ludwig look so _sad_...

He hadn't wanted that.

"She'd know," Ludwig whispered, as Alfred glanced over half-heartedly. "He was her real son, so she'd know, right? He never come back. If he weren't dead, he would've come back. I waited for him. I made sure to wait before I left, just in case."

A long, heavy silence, save for the pounding rain, and from the look on Ludwig's face, maybe he had said so much simply _because _it was raining.

Made it harder to see.

His bangs had fallen into his eyes now, anyway, so despair was a lot easier to hide.

Finally, Alfred asked, "What was his name?"

For all it mattered.

Ludwig nearly smiled, for a second there, he was sure of it, as if the name itself was something that had at one point brought so much happiness that he couldn't do anything but.

"Gilbert."

"Oh."

No more talk.

He was stupid.

Oh, he longed to ask more. To know more. To understand Ludwig's dreary nature. To ask about his home, his mother, what had _happened_ out there, what he had seen.

He didn't.

After that, they never spoke about family again, and Alfred was glad, in a way. Couldn't stand seein' Ludwig look like that.

The next time they met, though, Ludwig looked just as good as he had the last time.

No relapse of depression because of Alfred's thoughtless questions.

Maybe talking about such things did more good than harm.

He made a note to himself to slowly build up to each and every thing he wanted to know, and maybe, one day, Ludwig would actually tell him the whole story.

The truth.

If ever Ludwig trusted him so one day, then he was certain that he could go the rest of his life without feeling that he had missed out on anything. That would have been the day he could have truly liked himself.

In the meantime, they walked.

Eventually, the aimless walks they took started to have a more tangible destination, and when Alfred looked up one afternoon, he realized they were walking past Ludwig's house.

Getting closer and closer.

Each time, he got closer.

It took a while for Ludwig to actually lead him up onto his doorstep, and when they sat down together that first time on the stoop and just stared out at the streets together, Alfred was pretty sure that he knew at last was happiness truly felt like.

He'd sat on a hundred stoops like this, sometimes with someone at his side, sometimes alone, but it hadn't ever felt like this.

Exhilaration.

He wondered if this was what his mother had felt, so many years ago, when she had tried on her dress for the first time. Feeling like something had just begun, that life was really starting for the first time, that, no matter what had happened before, from now on everything would be perfect.

That the former world was melting away for something better.

Because that was what _he_ felt like.

She had twirled in front of the mirror, no doubt, beaming away, and when he walked through the door, he went into the bedroom and looked into his mirror. What he saw there, for the first time, really made him smile.

He could only hope that Ludwig had the same sensation every time he walked into his room.

They found themselves on those same steps now every time they walked, and sometimes Alfred dreaded _seeing_ those steps, because he knew it meant their journey had ended and that it wouldn't be long before the visit was over and he would have to go home.

The sense of what was home and what was not was steadily shifting. Before long, he started thinking to himself, 'I gotta go back to the house.'

The house; not home.

He kept an eye out for his father during these walks, just in case, but the old man never came after them. Maybe seeing Alfred there, really seeing him, would've broken his heart.

Well. As long as he stayed away and left Ludwig alone.

Sometimes, when they sat, Alfred could see Ludwig glancing at him, and maybe Ludwig had as many things he wanted to ask as Alfred did, but just couldn't find the words for.

Alfred would have answered anything he wanted, anything at all, if he would have just asked.

He never did.

Once, though, Ludwig did catch his eye, and ask, carefully, "Are your friends still mad at you?"

Alfred's answer was swift, and final.

"No friends of mine."

Ludwig seemed satisfied.

People eyed them, oddly, when they sat there, but neither one of them really noticed.

Alfred stood frequently on Ludwig's doorstep these days, but he was never invited inside, and he never asked. Hadn't gone that far yet, not yet. He wasn't brave enough, and if he asked before Ludwig offered, he might have come off as too bold and presumptuous.

He _was _bold and presumptuous, but Ludwig might not have appreciated that just yet.

Ludwig must have known that he wanted in, but if he did, then he didn't care. Alfred like to think that he was saving that invite for something special, or for when Alfred finally did something to really prove himself.

Time.

Everything got better in time. In time, Ludwig would trust him more.

He grew more confident with each encounter.

He wanted more. Each time, no matter what Ludwig offered, he found that he only wanted more.

So much of his time was spent in the streets now that he hardly even remembered what it was like just to sit at home and watch the television.

February was well on the way.

He noticed, albeit reluctantly, that his father was losing a little weight. Looked a little ill.

Maybe that was why he didn't stay home, on some level, to not have to see him getting worse.

Since it was his fault.

His fault, but not Ludwig's.

One morning, Alfred woke up, having had a wonderful idea the night before, and even though it was cloudy and snowing outside, he felt like he was in the middle of summer.

An idea.

What could it hurt? Things had improved enough between them now, hadn't it?

Time to push forward a little.

He dressed, pulled on his boots, and stepped into the road.

He heard Matthew's voice from a distance, calling after him as he jogged down the street.

"Hey, Alfred—!"

Too late.

He was already crossing the road and going around the corner.

Matthew always came around too late, it seemed, after Alfred had already gotten something into his head and was ready to act upon it.

Matthew just needed to be patient with him.

It didn't take too long before Alfred found himself, yet again, in front of Francis' house.

He was so excited this time that he banged on the door in a manner that was almost urgent. Too thrilled to control himself, as he often was.

Francis opened the door in a second, eyes alarmed and wide, as if thinking the cops were coming for him or something. Knowing Francis, one day a spurned woman probably _would_ send the fuzz after him. Right to worry, perhaps.

Upon seeing Alfred, Francis sent him a gentle glare of agitation, and lowered his shoulders.

"What's up? You scared me, you know."

"Sorry," was his carefree response, and he couldn't keep himself from bristling with adrenaline. "Just wanted to see you. You up for a walk? I thought we could go somewhere."

Francis would never say no.

Not to him.

"Well—alright. Sure, why not? Let's go for a walk."

Grabbing his coat and smoothing his hair, Francis came into the doorframe, and gave Alfred a smile.

He expected to start walking immediately, impatient as he was, but Francis stood still for a second, eyes glued to Alfred all of a sudden.

Francis always stared at him when they were together, always, but this time he seemed to be looking Alfred up and down more than usual, his eyes focused and brow low in concentration.

Alfred fidgeted a little, and finally asked, "What? Do I got something on my face?"

Francis smiled, in a way that was so knowing it made Alfred a little uneasy, and he shook his head.

"No. You cleaned your boots."

"Huh?"

He looked down, to his scrubbed boots, and then back up.

"So what?"

Francis just smiled. "You never clean your boots. You shined up your glasses, too, didn't'cha?"

"Well—"

He reached up, awkwardly, and shoved his glasses up his nose.

"They were gettin' dirty."

Francis reached out, and pinched a fold of fabric above his chest.

"Ironed your shirt, too, huh?"

Feeling a bit defensive, Alfred tugged himself back, and said, again, "So what? I know how to work an iron, believe it or not. I just... I don't know, I just felt like ironing it. What's the big deal?"

Francis broke into a wide smile, and waved off his snippy tone.

"No big deal. Just, you look good, is all. Haven't ever seen you worry about what you looked like."

Before he could think of something smart to say, Francis had grabbed him around the shoulder and dragged him down the steps.

"Well! Take me where you will, Alfred."

For a second there, a little uneasy, Alfred had half a mind to shove Francis back in his house and forget the whole thing.

Pfft—he'd always cared about what he looked like.

Sort of.

Kind of.

"Has that girl still been coming around?" Francis asked, rather slyly, and Alfred actually had to think about it before he answered, as they walked along.

Had she?

Hell, he'd been so far gone lately that Audrey Hepburn coulda showed up at his doorstep and he woulda just walked on by her without thought. If Alice had come by, then he couldn't remember.

"No. Not really."

Francis' smile turned into a leer.

"You been going out a lot lately?"

"I guess."

"Seein' somebody?"

Well. Yeah.

"I guess."

...but, oh, wait, not like _that_. Not like Francis thought.

He understood suddenly, that Francis was observing his neater than usual appearance, and assumed he had found a girl to chase after. But that wasn't—he'd been goin' after Ludwig, yeah, but—

Face red and feeling incredibly mortified for some reason, he blurted out, "Hey, not— I haven't been _seein' _anybody, if _that's _what you mean!"

His mortification increased tenfold when he realized that Francis in absolutely no way believed him.

That fuckin' grin.

"Sure, Alfred," was all he said.

Alfred hung his head, knowing that his face was red as hell, and he couldn't say why he was so embarrassed. All he had had to say was, 'I've been hanging out with a friend.' That was all.

He had choked, under Francis' assumptions.

Although he hadn't choked when Francis asked if Alice was still coming around with the same tone.

...ah, hell.

So he had tidied himself up a little. So what? Could you only do that on a date, or what? Couldn't he clean his boots and shine his glasses and iron his shirts a little just because Ludwig was so spotless and neat that it felt a little odd to walk at his side, so messy? Ludwig glanced at his boots, sometimes, and Alfred had suddenly realized how dirty they were.

Maybe that was why Ludwig hadn't invited him inside yet.

Maybe.

He hadn't gone to extremes, anyway, not in the least. He hadn't gotten a haircut or bought expensive clothes. He hadn't traded in his old jacket for a newer one. He hadn't started dousing himself in aftershave and cologne any more than he always had before.

He had started putting a bit on wrists instead of just spraying it on his clothes, but that was hardly noticeable.

In fact, he was fairly certain that Francis was the only one who would ever notice these small things, the only one who would actually realize that Alfred had smoothed a few rough edges.

Good damn thing he hadn't actually bothered to fix his hair.

Francis woulda tried to beat it out of him.

They walked, and with every step, Alfred wondered more and more if maybe this was a good idea after all. Francis' teasing had dampened not only his mood, but his confidence a little.

Francis assumed...

When it became more obvious where they were going, Francis lifted up his head a little, and became considerably less playful and considerably more alert.

"So," Francis asked, suddenly, "Where are we goin'?"

Alfred, jittery with excitement that wasn't quite so pleasant anymore, said, simply, "I just wanted to check out some stores."

He knew that Francis was eyeballing him, and, sure enough, he asked, "Since when do you go shopping all the way out here?"

An honest answer would have been, 'Since Ludwig.'

Instead, he replied, "There's this shop around here that had some great Christmas stuff. You like gingerbread, right? I love gingerbread."

He didn't, actually, but he sure had loved watchin' Ludwig try to make a house out of it.

There was a pause, and then Francis gave a laugh.

It might have been a little stiff.

"Well! I guess it's great to try new things," Francis said, and Alfred just stayed silent, and kept his lookout.

Second thoughts. Doubt. Things he hated.

Had Ludwig even noticed, that last time, that Alfred's boots no longer had the rainbow sheen of motor oil?

Who could tell, with Ludwig?

It didn't take long for Alfred to spot Ludwig, and it took little less for Ludwig to spot him, but this time, when Ludwig's eyes locked onto his own, the agitation was obvious.

Before they crossed the street, Ludwig had straightened up stiff as a board, and Alfred could see that he was turning his head this way and that, already plotting an escape.

Ludwig had never expected Alfred to bring anyone along.

Maybe this was a betrayal, somehow, of the frail faith that Ludwig had put in him.

Francis wasn't a bad guy—Ludwig would see it, surely.

If this hurdle could be passed...

If Ludwig could see that so many people weren't bad.

Seeing that Ludwig was starting to back away, Alfred quickened his pace, and reached the sidewalk before Ludwig could bolt.

Stuck, now.

Ludwig was caught towards the far end of the sidewalk, where he had slowly edged, and when Alfred smiled at him, Ludwig's shoulders fell in defeat, and he knew he had no choice.

He stood there, shiftily, and Alfred came closer.

When they were standing in front of Ludwig, Alfred came forward, hands in his pockets, and tried to reassure the fidgeting Ludwig by saying, as easily as he could, "Hey, hope you don't mind. I just wanted you to meet my uncle."

Ludwig's eyes could have very likely set him on fire, then, but he was too polite for his own good, and when Alfred said, loudly, "This is Francis," Ludwig took an automatic step forward, and held out his hand.

Francis had been quiet the whole time, sure, but when Alfred turned around, expecting to see him clasping Ludwig's hand and offering words of greeting, he was surprised.

Silence.

Francis stood still, as if frozen in place, and was staring at Ludwig from where he had settled. His face was very nearly indescribable.

Alfred had never seen him look like that.

He could only imagine that it was the look of a man who was hearing that his parents had died all over again, which was not _fair_, in any sense.

But Alfred couldn't even be angry, just seeing that odd expression on his uncle's face. Mouth half-open, brow low and eyes a bit wide, the crease of uncertainty visible on his forehead.

Francis looked so _stuck_.

Alfred was painfully aware of Ludwig's hand, held out there in a moment of what _had _to have been vulnerability. Putting his hand out for someone he didn't know and didn't trust, just because Alfred had put him in that position, and for some unholy reason, Ludwig had _trusted _Alfred enough to put himself out there.

Francis had never let Alfred down before.

But, oh God, did he ever now.

He didn't take Ludwig's hand.

Alfred had never been so embarrassed.

Slowly, carefully, Ludwig withdrew his hand, tucked it in his pocket, and took a step back. His face was completely blank, and that was enough to let Alfred know that he was, on some level, hurt. As always, he gave away nothing, and removed his eyes from the immobile Francis.

Alfred just watched them, not really knowing what to do.

What _could _he do?

Nothing.

Finally, Ludwig cast him a quick glance, acknowledged him with a nod, and said, "I'm late."

For what?

Before Alfred could protest, Ludwig turned on his heel, stepped into the crowd, and was gone.

And it was one of the biggest disappointments of his life.

Crushed.

Immediately, Francis turned to him, his look now one of mortification, and he said, beseechingly, "Alfred, I'm so sorry. That was so rude of me. I didn't mean—"

"Don't worry about it," he grumbled back, as he watched the crowd with a heavy heart, and then he sighed.

Well, so much for that. What a bust.

"I'm..."

Francis looked so _sad_.

Alfred didn't have it in him to be angry. Francis had choked, too.

"I'm sorry. That won't happen again."

Disheartened, and more than a little upset, Alfred shook his head.

"You're right. It won't."

Ludwig would not let it.

A step backwards.

* * *

><p>He didn't see Ludwig for a long time after that.<p>

It hurt, to think that the progress he had made had been set back by one simple, unintentional gesture. Francis felt horrible about, he knew he did, but it didn't change the fact that he had disenchanted Alfred with his immobility.

He had thought better of his uncle.

Maybe it wasn't Francis' fault, maybe it had been instilled in Francis the same way it had been instilled in him, but it didn't make Alfred any less disappointed.

Days and days and days.

They felt like months. Miserable months.

He searched, every day, and found nothing.

Ludwig didn't wait for him.

He couldn't even remember the last time he had felt so bad.

Not since that window.

He searched.

Before he ran into Ludwig, however, he ran into that girl that had been on his arm once.

Close enough.

He would have snatched anyone then that he had ever seen with Ludwig, even the crazy one that lived with him.

Anyone, _anything_, to make things the way they had been before he had let Ludwig down.

He didn't know her name, so when he saw her walking down the street, bouncing on her heels and looking so goddamn cheerful that it was almost shameful, Alfred had burst into a sprint after her, crying, ridiculously, "Hey! Hey, you! Girl! Hey, wait a sec!"

There was no way for her to know who he was talking to, not with so many people around, and the only reason she looked back was just to see who the weirdo was that was screaming in the streets.

Their eyes met, for a second, and she seemed to recognize him as he had her.

Relief.

She fell still, and waited for him.

"Hey," he called, as he drew nearer and slowed his pace, "Hey, you remember me? I'm—I don't think you ever got my name, but I'm Alfred. I'm a friend of Ludwig's. You remember me?"

Seemingly mesmerized by him, the girl just nodded her head, clenching her bag to her chest, and stared at him quietly.

For a moment, Alfred felt stupid, because he didn't really know what to say.

What was he going to say?

Searching for words and finding nothing particularly brilliant, he just said, clumsily, "Say, uh, how's he doin'? I haven't seen him out for a while, and I just... I wanted to make sure he was okay. Have you seen him?"

There was a short silence, as her eyes looked him up and down, as though judging his sincerity, and he prayed that she wasn't going to obey Ludwig's previous order not to talk to him.

Maybe he looked a little worried, after all, because she finally dropped her shoulders a little, and gave a bright smile.

"Well, I haven't seen him lately, but I'll go check on him, if you want me to. Would you like that?"

"Yes!" he cried, immediately, and could feel the smile on his own face. "Yes, please do! Go over, and check on him, and tell him—tell him that I... I really would like to see him. Again. You know. Soon. ...maybe."

He must have sounded like a fuckin' idiot, but she smiled all the wider anyway, and she waited patiently for him to try and finish what he wanted to say.

What did he _want_ to say?

An honest statement probably would have been more like, 'Please tell him that I want to see him again, because oh, damn, I _miss _him when he's not around for some reason and he's the only thing that makes me wanna get up outta bed in the morning and I've even been dreamin' about the bastard.'

But that might have been a little creepy, and more than a little desperate, so he finally summed up with a lame, "Tell him that I just, I worry about him, you know? If he doesn't want to, that's fine, but I'd like to meet up sometime."

Oh, God.

He couldn't have been any more awkward if he had actually tried.

She probably thought he was some crazy stalker.

If she did, then she didn't say anything in the affirmative, and just gave that same smile.

"I'll tell him. Promise. Maybe I'll try to bring him out some more."

Alfred smiled, then, too.

"Thanks."

She turned and walked off, glancing at him over her shoulder as she went, and before she was gone, he could see her gleaming smile.

He could only pray that she would do as he said, and at least say kind words about him to Ludwig.

He went home, after, and this time it wasn't Matthew that was lurking around the corner, waiting to get a hold of him.

Francis was leaning against the steps of his house, and Alfred suspected he'd been waiting there for a while.

Guilty, no doubt.

Alfred stopped in front of him, and stood still long enough to let him say whatever he wanted to.

He looked kinda sick. Nervous.

Francis finally gave a rather weak smile, which quickly fell, and then he ran a hand through his hair, asking, "So... How's it been going?"

Not his fault.

Still, Alfred's voice came out a little sharper than he wanted it to, as he responded, "Could be better."

Francis shifted a little.

"How's your dad?"

Alfred shrugged a shoulder.

Didn't care.

There was a silence that wasn't quite awkward, but maybe a little uncomfortable.

The wind was blowing like crazy.

"So," Francis finally began, hopefully, "I was... I was thinking that, you know. You asked if—if I'd mind havin' him over for dinner. Well. I wanted to tell you that, if you ever want to bring him over, I'm alright with that, Alfred, I am. I feel... Oh, man, I feel terrible, I really do."

Just like that, Francis slumped, and Alfred could see that he really was _sorry_.

Probably not because he had had some great revelation about Germans and brotherhood and all that whatnot, but because he knew that Alfred's feelings had been hurt by his thoughtlessness.

Still...

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, in a gentler voice, and Francis tried to smile.

"If you see him, tell him that _I'd _like to have him over."

"Sure."

He wouldn't, because Ludwig would not accept.

He appreciated the effort all the same. It was proof that, no matter what their differences, Francis would always love him, even if they sometimes disagreed.

They didn't have to see eye to eye with everything, but that didn't mean that they still couldn't love each other.

Francis smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder.

Then he wandered off, and Alfred went inside.

His old man had been at the window, probably for a while now, no doubt trying to figure out what Francis had been doing out there. It struck Alfred, as he passed, that his father looked a little disappointed.

Almost as if he had been hoping Alfred would bring Francis inside.

Since when?

His father had never wanted Francis around before. Must be gettin' lonely. Probably missed his wife, now that Alfred was gone so much.

That was unpleasant to think about much, so he tried not to. He went into his room, ignoring his father's whisper of, "You coulda brought him in for dinner."

Sad.

It was so much easier just to think about Ludwig.

Kinda hard, though, when he wouldn't show Alfred his face.

A week.

It was in those days, maybe, that he realized how _lost_ he felt when Ludwig wasn't around. He had put so much of himself into this whole thing that it felt like the world was being sucked into a great black hole when he was alone. When Ludwig wasn't there.

Ludwig was the only person on earth who might have really _needed_ him.

Nothing could have ever filled that void.

He waited, as patiently as was possible for him, but when yet another week passed after his encounter with the girl and Ludwig still didn't show, he started to get anxious.

Irritable.

Matthew actually came up to his door and knocked one day, and when Alfred had opened it quickly, thinking for some ridiculous reason that it was Ludwig, he had been so disappointed to see Matthew standing there that he had promptly said, 'I'm busy, Matt. Come back later.'

Matthew's face had fallen as he had shut the door.

Not fair to take it out on poor Matthew, but he felt so foul all the time.

His moods had been tied to Ludwig as much as anything else lately, it seemed.

When Ludwig was gone, so was that happiness.

Agitation.

Emptiness.

Ludwig still didn't come out, so Alfred finally decided to go to him. Couldn't take it anymore. He had to make sure Ludwig knew that Alfred wasn't going to let one little setback bring down this castle he was building.

Not that easily.

He didn't remember exactly going out that day, and he couldn't really remember leading his feet towards that house, and yet somehow he wound up there all the same, standing on Ludwig's doorstep and feeling more like he was standing before some door to a terrifying world that had never been seen.

He hardly remembered raising his fist.

He knocked.

He waited.

And he could feel his heart beating so loudly that it rivaled the sound of his fist on the door.

Silence.

He could hear shuffling within, and the lifting of a curtain. Low voices.

He might have cried, if Ludwig hadn't opened the door.

But he did. Mostly. He didn't pull it open all the way, just enough to make himself visible behind the threshold, and when he saw Alfred standing there, he just lifted a brow, and stood still.

Seeing him...

No words.

Even from behind a door, there was nothing quite like Ludwig.

Alfred felt a little stupid, but hid it well.

After a short silence, he said, weakly, "Hi."

Ludwig just stared at him.

"How you been? Alright?"

Ludwig didn't answer, but Alfred could see by his appearance and by the odd look on his face that he was doing just fine, indeed. Just fine. The clothes fit better still.

He looked a little better every time that Alfred saw him. That was something he could be grateful for.

That look, though... That was nothing he could place. As if Ludwig was trying very hard to keep a straight face, although for what reason Alfred didn't even dare to hazard a guess.

Still mad, maybe, and resisting the urge to slap him again.

"Listen," he tried again, "I don't know if—well, I told that girl to tell you that I was lookin' for you, but I don't know if she has yet. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. I haven't seen you in a while."

He wanted to say, 'I miss you,' but pride and embarrassment kept his tongue.

Something twitched on Ludwig's face.

Honestly, he didn't know now where he stood with Ludwig. He couldn't tell if the ice was sturdy beneath his feet or if it had already cracked.

He just wanted to get it over with, and say it. He had been thinking it for so long, so long, and by God, maybe it was just time.

Get it over with.

Ah, hell. Why not? He had done so much, risked so much, so why freeze now?

Why stop?

Francis' mistake did not stop the world.

Not Francis'—his mistake. He had put both Francis and Ludwig into a position neither of them had wanted to be in.

With a deep breath, he shook his head, and gave a short laugh. Ludwig looked at him with a lifted brow, calm and patient as always, and waited for him to speak.

He did.

"Well! I was afraid to ask before, but fuck it! I'll just say it—I miss you. You wanna hang out and get drunk sometime? Can I—well, I mean, could I invite you over...sometime? Maybe?"

Ludwig's high brow fell, and for a moment, he almost crinkled his nose.

Alfred's heart hammered, and the confidence turned into anxiety, and a little hurt.

Ludwig thought he was stupid. He knew it. He knew _that_ look. He'd seen it many times.

And Ludwig said as much then, by tilting his head and uttering, slowly, "You're dumb, you know? You're really dumb."

His breath caught in his throat, and for a horrible, freezing moment, Alfred felt like he coulda burst into tears.

Oh—not that. Anything but that.

He couldn't handle rejection.

A long silence, as he swallowed to gather himself, feeling horrified and mortified and _hurt_, and then Ludwig lifted up his chin, and started to close the door. As his fingers gripped the handle, Ludwig cast him one last, cool look, and then he spoke up again.

"You're dumber than I thought. If we're 'hanging out' anywhere, then it's going to be _here_. What were you thinking? Dumb!"

Ludwig's eyes met his own, right as the door closed, and the coolness had warmed a little.

Then the door shut.

Spring came alive right in the middle of winter, and the sun had suddenly shone itself.

Alfred did cry then, just a little, as he started on his way back to the house.

Happiness.

Couldn't even remember what it felt like, being so goddamn happy that he could cry.

What had that girl said to Ludwig? What had her words been, to make Ludwig finally speak to him as a friend might? To tease, even, as a normal man would have? She had cast him a good light, that was for sure. Oh, God, whatever she had said, she was a godsend. If he saw her again, he'd pick her up and squeeze her as hard as he could.

Heaven was here on earth.

He found it quite easily on Ludwig's doorstep.

Dumb.

Yeah, he was dumb alright.

Thinking about it, it occurred to him that maybe he was dumb for Ludwig.

Ludwig seemed to make him trip all over the place without even trying. When had that happened, anyway? The urge to claim Ludwig as a friend had turned into an obsession. Being able to truly call Ludwig 'friend' was something he suddenly desired more than anything he had ever wanted before.

In all honestly, he couldn't exactly explain why.

Ludwig had become an obsession.

There wasn't a single thing about him that Alfred found unpleasant, not a thing, and there was no one else on the face of this miserable planet that he could say that about. Even Francis and Matthew had things about them that irritated Alfred sometimes.

Not Ludwig.

On his way back, he stopped at a book shop, slinking in and feeling rather out of place in the midst of better dressed patrons, and bought a German dictionary.

Just because.

It felt strange, to have a book in his hands after so many years.

He tucked it under his coat, and kept it safe from his father's eyes.

So that if Ludwig ever looked _sad _again, he could try to say something stupid in German, and maybe that would make Ludwig smile.

And maybe Ludwig would come to think about him just as much.


	12. Waltz of the Moths

**A/N **: I love you guys. Bunches. Thanks for taking the time to review and make me smile.

As with ZY, a couple of people asked me, while I was gone, what kind of theme song I had in mind for this story. Actually, I have several, some cornier than others. Aside from the opera in chapter 9, 'O.R.T.' by Mary Elizabeth McGlynn, 'Here Be Monsters' by Ed Harcourt, 'Meant to Live' by SwitchFoot, and 'Read All About It' by Emeli Sande. What you're feeling now is disappointment in my terrible taste in music. :D

(The bit towards the end is total corn, and I _apologize_—I just couldn't _help _it. I needed something stupid in this before I went crazy.)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

**Waltz of the Moths**

There were several words that he couldn't stand.

One of them was _that word_.

Nazi.

The rest of the list was comprised of similar expressions that he had come to hear in his time living within the city. Many of them were so foul that he didn't even like for them to cross his mind, let alone ever hope to come out of his own mouth. Every kind of ethnic slur imaginable, horrible racist taunts, so many—so _many_—that he could barely even keep track of them all. He knew what it felt like to be called such names, and swore he would never use one.

He remembered walking down the street one day, not long after he had arrived, Antonio at his side, and heard a conversation of two men in passing :

'...hear the Japs finally signed the peace treaty, after all these years?'

'Ha! Took 'em long enough! I swear, damn dirty knees are as stubborn as the niggers were back when they were tryin' to get into _our _schools—'

Ludwig was glad, then, that Antonio hadn't understood, just so that he wouldn't have to feel as bad as Ludwig had.

So many things, so many words people created, just for the sake of hurting others. Why? What was the point? What could you gain by making someone else feel bad? Not limited to the Americans, either. Immigrants taunted other immigrants. The Chinese vendors wouldn't sit in the same street as the Japanese ones. The Poles avoided the Russians. The Serbs taunted the Bulgarians. The Greeks and the Turks sent each other foul looks.

They were supposed to support each other. Instead, everyone just chose to hate.

He hated those words.

One other word that he hated was 'concede'.

Concede.

Conceding meant weakness. Conceding meant giving up. Conceding meant throwing your hands in the air and backing off. Conceding meant tossing away your pride.

Disgraceful, to concede.

Conceding hurt.

So. He wasn't _conceding_. He wasn't giving in. He wasn't relenting. He hadn't set out to build any bridges, hadn't taken a hammer to any walls, he hadn't intended to let his shoulders fall down in a moment of weakness, and he certainly hadn't intended to be _nice_.

He hadn't.

It had just happened.

Somehow, he had tried to put on the brakes and had accidentally hit the acceleration instead. He hadn't been such a bad driver before, but, hell. Not really his fault, not with so much going on in his head.

Seeing Alfred that night, standing there on that doorstep and looking so lost, as he had tried so hard to scrub away paint, even as the party had broken out on the other side of the city...

He couldn't say why the look on Alfred's face had made him feel so damn _sad_.

He couldn't say why Alfred made him feel any of the things he did, but it was there all the same.

He had just woken up the morning after, still smelling a bit like turpentine, and he had realized he didn't feel like lying in bed all day. He felt like getting up. He felt like seeing the world. He felt like _trying_.

Alfred.

It just happened.

Anyway, if Ludwig tried hard enough, he was fairly certain he could blame the whole damn thing on Antonio and Felicia. Antonio, who had forced him down this road in the first place, and Felicia, who was suddenly ripping down the damn stop sign behind his back and telling him it was all clear to go ahead.

He hadn't expected to see _her_ at the door, that much was certain.

Not looking like _that_. Like she'd just won the lottery or something. Her damn smile had hardly fit on her face as she had looked up at him that strange evening, saying, merrily, 'Hi, Ludovico! Miss me?'

Even now, he still looked over her shoulder to make sure her brother wasn't lurking around. Just in case.

Her perfect hair fell neatly around her face, and her big eyes were as pretty as always as she waited for him to answer. Every so often, her smile twitched, as if she knew something he didn't, and even though he disliked that knowing leer, she was still enough to dazzle him a little.

Even after all these years.

Felicia had been the first person on this side of the ocean that had ever been _nice_ to him. The first person that had set eyes upon him and had decided that he was actually approachable, if anyone had bothered to try. The first person to look at him and smile.

In his mind and heart, Felicia would always be exceedingly gorgeous.

In every possible way.

And she knew it, too. She knew that she had an uncanny power over him.

Which was why she had come by, no doubt, with that smile that was very close to being a joyful sneer.

A sweep of the street came back empty. No Luna Lovi had been in sight, so Ludwig had let down his guard. Seeing no threat, he had said, simply, 'Sure.'

He kinda had, if he were honest.

She reached up, resting her hand on the frame of the door, and looked him up and down, dark lashes hiding her eyes every time she lowered them.

'Have you been alright?'

He nodded.

She moved her hand from the door to his collar, straightening it with gentle hands, and he had known then for sure that she was up to something. If she had just wanted to spend time with him, she would've said so already.

'You look so nice today! You haven't been going out for a few weeks, huh?' A gentle pinch on his side. 'You're putting on weight!'

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, he had asked, warily, 'How do you know I haven't been going out?'

'Ah,' she began, easily, 'A little birdie told me.'

That look on her face, the tone of her voice, the sly shifting of her eyes, and it hit him then.

'You did something you weren't supposed to, didn't you?' he chided, half-heartedly, and her smile just grew all the wider.

Her hand flew up then to his cheek, and her thumb started rubbing up and down the stubble he had not yet shaved.

'Maybe! I didn't mean to. I forgot I wasn't supposed to talk to him.'

'Sure you did.'

Kinda hard to be mad.

'Well,' she had carried on, ignoring the gentle glare he sent her, 'He wanted me to come check on you, so here I am. He was worried about you. But,' she added, eyeing him fondly, 'I can see you're doing just fine.'

He was, actually.

Her hand kept on running up and down his cheek, just touching, fingers smooth and warm, and...

What was going on again?

Oh, right, right. Talkin' to Alfred.

Ah. Honestly, maybe he was a little relieved she had broken his rule.

Not that he'd admit it.

Alfred was worried, huh? It was a strange feeling, not an unpleasant one, to know that Alfred was still fretting over him. Still trying to seek him out, even though their last encounter had been so awkward.

To know that there was someone out there, in the vast world, that was at least thinking about him.

Because if there was one person that could make his mind wander more than Felicia could, it was Alfred.

Alfred's hands, had they been upon his cheek in that instant, would have felt considerably rougher, fuckin' mechanic's hands that they were, probably calloused and no doubt smelling of machinery. Not the worst combination. Big as Alfred's hands were, though, they'd take up the whole side of his damn face, rather than just his cheek—

...the fuck had _that_ come from? Christ almighty.

He shook his head a bit, and was glad, more than anything, that she hadn't noticed the horrible heat on his cheek for that unholy thought ever crossing his mind in the first place.

'You know,' she had suddenly said, 'He kind of reminds me of you.'

Huh? What?

The words had stunned him, that was for sure.

Him and Alfred, alike?

Ha.

'How so?' he had finally managed, and he was surprised that she heard him at all, for the deep, weak tone of his voice.

Adrenaline rush.

She giggled a bit to herself, and then said, throwing her arms out in an exaggerated fashion, 'Because! You're both really _big _and really _scary _looking, but once you actually talk, suddenly you're not so scary anymore! You're really sweet, and _really _nice. I think he's like that, too. I'm a pretty good judge of character, Ludovico. I wouldn't have spoken to him at all if I thought he were bad. He reminded me of you, too, because when I first saw you, you looked so sad, remember? He looks that way too, sometimes.'

A silence.

He stared at her, and she amended, breezily, 'Anyway, if he's bothering you, just tell me so and the next time I see him—bam!' She made a fist and hit her other palm, dramatically expressive in her words, and Ludwig quirked a brow. 'I'll give him a good whack in the nose!'

Oh, he believed that.

Felicia probably had pretty good practice in smacking her brother around, and no doubt she could hit as hard as he could. Harder, maybe.

He could have said, 'Please do.'

Instead, he lifted up his brow, and said, 'Well! Let's... Let's not do that just yet.'

'Okay.'

'Okay.'

And with that, he had done something he would not usually have done.

He held open the door, and had said, 'Why don't you come in?'

She didn't need to be told twice.

They sat at the kitchen table, and she talked for hours, telling him everything she could think of, and God help him, Ludwig couldn't figure out why his heart picked up its pace a little when she started talking about Alfred.

A strange feeling he couldn't really place.

But it wasn't depression; of that much he was certain.

Something else.

Restlessness.

She told him how Alfred had bolted after her so eagerly in the street, the way his face had been so tense, the way his voice had wavered, and how she had just _known_, right off the bat, that Alfred meant absolutely no harm.

How could she tell? He didn't understand how she could look at someone and just trust that they meant well.

How she could still see the good in people, when most weren't.

He couldn't understand.

He had spent his entire life trusting no one.

Felicia had never let him down before, though, and he couldn't deny that she was, indeed, a very good judge of character. When everyone else had been afraid to come up to him, still fresh from the ship, she had bounded up fearlessly and smiled at him.

She found Alfred to be of equally reliable stock.

Some part of Ludwig's mind couldn't help but wonder, though...

If Felicia hadn't trusted Alfred, if she had told him to stay away from Alfred, if it really would have mattered to him.

If he would have listened to her.

Alfred seemed to creep in and gain a little more foothold inside of his brain with each passing day.

The hours ticked by, and before he knew it, it was well beyond dark.

Felicia's last words, before she had left, had stuck with Ludwig long after she did.

Turning back to him in the doorframe, she had said, in an odd, serious voice, 'You should be nicer to him, Ludovico. He looked so sad, you know? When you weren't there.'

A smile.

The click of the door.

He wandered around in circles for the rest of the night, and pondered her words.

Nicer.

How? He hadn't ever really been sociable, and he was polite, sure, but he wasn't really sure of how to be _nice_, not like she could be.

Alfred was too much trouble sometimes.

Nice. What, was that like inviting him for coffee or something?

Should he look at Alfred one day and send him a half-assed compliment? Should he tell Alfred that his hair looked nice? That that ugly jacket wasn't really so ugly after all? That Alfred was smart and funny? That Alfred was handsome?

Well. That last one might have been sincere.

Kind of.

Being nice was too hard. Unfamiliar. He had spent so much time avoiding humanity that actually attempting to engage in it was kinda scary. Felicia and Antonio didn't count, not really, because he knew them by now, and they had been nice to _him_, the first time. He had just saddled up for the ride.

Too much pressure with Alfred. He didn't know what to do.

He reached up every so often, and scratched his cheek in irritation.

Nice.

Finally, he threw himself down at the table and thought, 'Well! If he's _that_ worried, then why is he sending others to do his dirty work?'

It was a valid statement, sure, and he used it as an excuse to take his mind off of how he should act in the wake of this strange word of 'nice'.

Better to sit and wait for Alfred to come to him, and that would be a little less pressure on his shoulders.

He wouldn't go out, just to make a statement. If Alfred wanted to see him that badly, then he was just going to have to come over here himself, wasn't he? He could do it, if he wanted it enough.

Alfred knew where he lived.

So, he sat at home, and waited.

Didn't take too long.

Antonio showed up a few times in those days, and when Ludwig heard footsteps outside, it was easy to figure out who it was when the lock jingled.

Antonio seemed curious about his odd air, and when he caught Ludwig glancing towards the door more than once, he had asked, simply, 'Waitin' for something?'

Ludwig had just looked over at him, and replied, coyly, 'Maybe.'

Half-answers irritated the hell out of Antonio, and it was quickly obvious in the pushing out of his lips that he wanted to know exactly what was going on. He never pressed too far though, and it was easy enough to distract Antonio when he asked questions by just scooting the chair closer and opening his mouth to speak.

Antonio smiled, then, and pushed his head in next to Ludwig's, every so often putting a hand on his shoulder.

Curiosity was forgotten in favor of adoration.

If Ludwig's mood had improved these past few weeks, then Antonio's had skyrocketed. It was easy to see, as it always had been, what Antonio was feeling, and lately there had been no shadows across his face. No more anxiety. No more melancholy.

No more weariness.

Antonio looked as happy now as he had the day they had first extended hands to each other, and, in some way, it felt like that all over again.

Like they had rediscovered each other, in some way.

A long stretch of night, seemingly endless, that had been so black that when the sun finally came out again it was damn near dazzling.

Antonio.

Ludwig enjoyed his smiles and his presence.

All the same, Antonio only demanded half of his attention.

If Antonio was daybreak, then Alfred was high noon.

He was waiting.

It took about a week for Alfred's antsy feet to get the better of him.

The next knock on the door hadn't really come as a surprise.

Antonio had been watching from behind, a little worriedly perhaps, but Ludwig had felt hardly any concern as he had pulled open the door.

It was exactly who he had expected.

Ludwig stood there, and realized that he had felt no reservations about pulling open that door.

Alfred no longer brought any concern along with him. There was always that distant threat of his father, but that had become somehow a little less frightening. More of a possibility than a probability, or at least he hoped, and now when Alfred was around Ludwig found that he had stopped waiting for the worst.

If anything happened, then it was gonna happen whether he worried himself to death about it or not. He wasn't frightened by anything Alfred brought in his wake, except for maybe that strange, squirming feeling that was very foreign.

Those strange thoughts that sometimes crossed his mind.

All the same, Antonio had been there that day, so pulling open the door all the way was not an option. After their last encounter, Antonio's feelings toward Alfred were still lingering on the aggressive side.

...some part of Ludwig's mind woulda been amused, perhaps, if Antonio were to rush forward and take a great flying leap to tackle Alfred to the ground. Just a little. If only to see the look on Alfred's face.

Didn't want him to get hurt, though, dummy, so Ludwig had just cracked open the door, and reveled in Alfred's awkwardness.

It was nice to see Alfred looking like Ludwig so often felt.

Terrified.

He was glad that the big oaf couldn't see inside, because it would have been more than a little embarrassing for Alfred to have seen Ludwig staring at him through the crack as he tried very hard to keep Antonio back behind him.

Felt more like trying to kick off an annoying child so that he could hold a civilized conversation.

Antonio was determined to break through the door, and Ludwig was determined to make him fail.

The hand in Antonio's hair, the one that had wrenched his head down and kept it there, was the only thing keeping him and Alfred apart.

Alfred blabbered on, like nothing was out of the ordinary, completely oblivious to the silent struggle behind the door. Half of what he said was lost to the atmosphere, as Ludwig's mind was somewhere else.

Felicia's words rang in his ears the whole time.

He and Alfred were alike, she said.

The way life had treated him so far—he couldn't really stand the thought that he might do something to make Alfred feel as miserable as he once had.

He hated saying it, he _hated_ it, but God help him, he loved it when Alfred smiled.

A sight unlike any other.

Alfred was staring at him the whole time he spoke, and he kept on thinking too much and choking in the end.

Oh, where was Felicia when he really needed her?

Nice.

The hell was he supposed to be nice? What could he say?

'I _miss_ you—'

Oh, God.

Maybe he was thinkin' about this whole thing too much.

Overanalyzing.

Finally, he just forced his mind to shut down, to stop that incessant whirring, and he let his voice do as it would.

Alfred was dumb.

Yeah, he was, and that made it all the more curious that Ludwig found himself thinking about him more and more.

He heard himself speak, but the words were about as aware to his mind as Alfred's had been.

Whatever he had said must have been alright, though, because he didn't feel like shit afterwards. That had to have been a good sign. As soon as he shut the door, he took a great breath, untangled his fingers from Antonio's hair, and felt strange.

Had that been nice?

Couldn't ask Antonio—he was bouncing up to the peephole like a dog, trying to glimpse Alfred, and Ludwig was fairly certain that at some point there he had snarled.

Well. He'd get over it.

And, come to think, he did, almost as soon as Alfred had wandered off down the street.

Out of sight, out of mind, apparently.

Sometimes, Ludwig looked at Antonio and realized that, as much as he couldn't understand Felicia's good will, he couldn't understand Antonio's optimism.

Antonio had seen Ludwig's improvement, and just seemed to know that everything was alright.

Antonio knew, somehow, that nothing bad would happen.

How? How could he just be so certain that everything would work out?

Antonio didn't spend every waking moment in Ludwig's house now. It was a little disappointing in a way, but Ludwig realized that every second of Antonio's entire existence did not have to revolve around him, and now that he was doing so much better, Antonio could actually go out and have some alone time and not worry that doing so would result in something catastrophic.

Antonio could let him go to the bathroom and not worry that he would get too friendly with a razor.

Antonio could have fun, outside of these walls.

Antonio deserved it.

Kinda sad, though, to come downstairs to see his couch empty.

Oh, well.

He still came by, of course he did, because that was what friends did, but it wasn't quite like it had been before. Antonio could see his improvement, could see that he was doing fine on his own, and realized that Ludwig didn't need him every second anymore.

Antonio deserved to have his own life. Sure did _miss_ him, though. He'd gotten so used to having someone constantly by his side that being alone again was somehow rather frightening.

When he was alone, he thought far too much, and found his eyes wandering up to the mantle.

Rather not look there. He'd spent too much damn time trying to forget that entire thing, too much time pretending it had never happened.

Easier to just pretend that the dog was running around in the park.

Hurt too much to look there.

In Antonio's absence and trying to keep his eyes from something else, he found himself lifting up his curtain all too often and waiting to see if someone would come to visit.

Felicia dropped by every so often, and Ludwig was glad, sure, but...

She hadn't really been who he had been hoping for.

He loved hearing the lock click, and looking up to see Antonio, and yet...

He had kind of hoped for a knock instead.

All the same, when Felicia smiled at him from the step, he opened the door, swept his hand in front of him in playful chivalry that he could have never managed to pull off just a few weeks ago, and when she put her heels together and lifted up her skirt, he was pretty sure he almost smiled.

Almost.

When Antonio grabbed his hand and yanked him to the side so that he could wrap his arm around Ludwig's neck, when Antonio ruffled his hair and forced him to break free if he wanted to breathe, Ludwig always played along with him, but he never really felt himself beaming afterward.

Close. But not quite.

Nonetheless, Antonio and Felicia saw something different in him, whether Ludwig did or not. They stared at him quite a bit, it seemed.

It wasn't clear to him, but Felicia could see something strange in his air.

She smiled up at him the next time they met, head tilted to the side and eyes narrowed in focus, and then she put her hand on the small of his back when they came to rest in the kitchen.

"You walk differently now, Ludovico. Did you know?"

No, he hadn't noticed.

His feet didn't feel so heavy. Maybe that was why.

It wasn't that obvious to him, but Antonio could see something there on his face.

For the first time in months, Antonio's smile actually reached his eyes as he looked Ludwig up and down. A warm hand flew up, and patted his cheek in airy friendliness.

"I'm so glad you're feeling _better_, Ludwig. I really am."

Better.

He felt better. He felt closer and closer to normal, and in that he felt exceptional, because he had _never _been normal.

Being normal was a luxury.

They made more notes about him as the days went, but he had yet to be aware himself of any differences.

Felicia mentioned that he had started holding his chin higher as he walked. Antonio said to him one day that his face looked brighter. Felicia commented on the way he had started trimming his sideburns. Antonio grabbed his upper arm, and pointed out the increasingly girth of it.

Weeks passed.

He felt better.

Alfred grew ever bolder.

And by growing bolder, Ludwig meant that Alfred had wised up and caught on. Ludwig had made a point of making Alfred come to him, and maybe that had been too obvious. Somehow, he couldn't wonder if maybe Alfred had become keen to his game and flipped it around.

Because, God help him, when Alfred didn't come knocking before a certain time, Ludwig always took to that same street corner.

Like an ant that had been called by the queen.

Alfred always found him there.

He hadn't noticed any of the physical differences that Felicia and Antonio did, but he was very much aware that when he saw Alfred, his chest lit up and his stomach squirmed.

Couldn't say why, though.

Friend.

Soon, the winter air grew a bit milder.

Ludwig found that, lately, he had become rather complacent with his job at the shop, and hadn't really gone out to actively look for another, although he knew that he needed to. Shameful, yeah, but for some unholy reason his mind had become so damn preoccupied with Alfred that it was hard to focus on anything else, even something so important.

Complacency. That hadn't ever been a word he would have attached to himself before.

He was always preoccupied.

Sometimes, he forgot to pay his bills, until Antonio reminded him.

He forgot to eat dinner other times, until Felicia chided him.

Alfred was going to ruin him one day, one way or another.

Absentminded.

Every day was just a long, boring vigil of the clock.

Time didn't even really seem to start moving until it was time to meet Alfred.

Every time he went to that corner, there was never any worry in his mind that something would go wrong, that Alfred would bring somebody else and that the line would be set back.

Once, maybe Alfred's uncle and the awkward incident might have put him into such a foul mood that he would have tried very hard to never show his face around Alfred again.

Honestly, he couldn't say it bothered him too much.

He was over it.

Alfred was who he went there to meet, anyway, so he didn't see much reason in being upset by something like that. Who said that you had to get along with every member of your friend's family?

Friend.

That word had been popping into his head a lot lately.

More like every day.

All he did anymore was wait for Alfred. He felt like a dog, sometimes.

When Alfred was around, the confusing question about the purpose of life seemed a little less important.

Come to think, everything seemed a little less important when Alfred was around.

Someone who cared.

No doubt that the sun was in the same spot it always had been, the stars still sat where they sat every night, and the moon and planets were still very much in place, but when Alfred was around, it seemed like the universe started spinning in the completely opposite direction.

Or maybe that was just his head.

Alfred seemed to leave him dazed and confused and unable to sort up from down.

Like he'd been hit by a train.

Seeing stars.

* * *

><p>One morning, before he could set out for the day, he was intercepted.<p>

A knock on the door.

He knew who it was, and pulled it open quickly.

Too quickly, perhaps.

_So_ quickly, actually, that he very nearly skidded on the wood and fell flat on his face as he reached for the handle.

A little pathetic.

Was he starting to appear desperate?

Didn't matter. When he yanked the door open and saw Alfred standing there, he didn't _care_ how desperate he was or how pitiful, because there went those damn stars again, spinnin' all over the place.

He opened his mouth, and was going to say, 'What are you doing here?', assuming that he would have been able to speak at all.

He didn't get the chance. Alfred got there first.

Alfred, hands tucked in his pockets and messy hair whipping around in the start of spring wind, just flashed him a short smile and said, quickly, "Come walk with me."

Well, nobody could ever accuse Alfred of wasting time.

Without even waiting for an answer, Alfred turned on his heel and started off, and maybe that was because Alfred knew exactly what he was going to do; scramble for his boots and follow right after him. Didn't even grab his coat, he was so worried about getting left behind.

He was supposed to go to work, and the voice of reason in his head said that he should ditch Alfred and get there, fast, because skipping work was rude, and that was not who he was or how he carried himself.

He tried.

Hard.

But even though he commanded his shoes to go south, they kept going north.

—_damn_. Couldn't seem to turn his feet around.

He wanted to hiss, 'Alfred, I gotta go to work, get the hell out of here,' and yet when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, "Where are we going?"

Goddammit. Goddammit.

Alfred just kept on walking, and replied, "You'll see!"

Son of a _bitch_.

'Frantic' was the only word that could really describe the manner in which he was following Alfred, and he couldn't figure it out. He felt _stupid_, arms crossed above his chest as the wind penetrated his thin shirt, hair not even combed yet and clothes very much wrinkled, and yet still he had leapt out the door without thought.

He couldn't stop following Alfred. He couldn't seem to get his feet working.

Helpless.

Alfred was growing bold, far too bold.

He was going to power-check Alfred, and _soon_, because that damn confidence was startin' to get way too high. _Alfred_ was supposed to be the one fumbling after _him_, like before. Somewhere along the way, a coin had been flipped. Ludwig had gotten tails, alright.

Didn't like it much.

Alfred slowed his pace, once he was sure that he was being followed, and Ludwig had half a mind to kick him in the shin, just to let him know that these actions were not appreciated.

He didn't.

Lately, it seemed, his mind had been all talk. No matter how many times he wanted to smack Alfred around, his body just wouldn't ever seem to follow through with it. Couldn't seem to bring himself to hurt the dope.

He wouldn't ever say it aloud, but...he'd gotten attached.

Just a little.

Streets came and went. Familiar ones twisted around, and became a little less familiar.

A twinge of unease.

When it become increasingly obvious where Alfred was leading him, he found himself slowing pace and lagging behind.

He had leapt behind Alfred so eagerly that he hadn't prepared himself for the possibilities.

A blunder, on his part.

Alfred seemed to have a way of making him feel a little dumb.

His senses had been diluted lately.

The streets changed a little, and the unease turned into anxiety.

He hadn't been here in a long time.

He found himself looking at Alfred, who had seen his slowing pace and made it so that they were walking side by side, and sent him a rather dreary look.

All he had to do was stop. Just stop.

He couldn't seem to.

He tried to delay the inevitable, however, and suddenly asked, "Aren't you worried one of _them _will see us?"

He meant, 'Aren't you ashamed to be seen with me around here?'

Here.

Alfred's side.

Alfred tucked his hands in his pockets, still so easy-going, and just said, "Nope!"

Damn.

It occurred to Ludwig, as the lights of Broadway flashed off to the side, that Alfred was testing him, somehow. Every time that Alfred pushed him, it seemed to Ludwig that he had reached the limits of his patience as well as those of his comfort-zone. And yet, the next time that Alfred pushed, Ludwig found himself going a little farther.

Every time, a little farther.

Alfred was conditioning him.

Sometimes, it felt like Alfred was treating him very much like a wild animal; tossing the bait a little nearer each time, and waiting for Ludwig to come for it so that he could see how close he could get his hand.

Biting was a tempting prospect sometimes, but, damn...

The bait was even more so; Alfred's friendship.

Every step he took now was a testament of how far he was willing to go for Alfred.

Eventually, the line was reached.

Their side.

Once, Alfred had forbidden him from coming into this side of town.

Now, even though those lines had vanished, he still found himself freezing still there at the end of the block, arms loose at his sides and brow furrowed. It wasn't as if he had never come here before, certainly not, but the few times he had had never ended well, and it still felt so strange.

So uncomfortable.

More so to come here now with the same man that had told him _not_ to come here in the first place.

Alfred knew it, and looked back at him with a breezy expression.

"Feels weird at first, doesn't it?"

Yeah. Yeah it did.

Alfred would know; he had crossed the line first.

"Well," Alfred carried on, at his silence, "The first step's the hardest. Afterwards, you just kinda forget you weren't ever supposed to go there."

That could be said of many things in life; that the first step was the hardest. Didn't mean that it was any easier to lift up his foot. He just stood there, staring at the street before him, and felt so _defeated_ suddenly.

Alfred was wearing him down.

Lethargic for some reason, he stared over at Alfred, who must have seen his melancholy, and damn if he just didn't want to go home all of a sudden.

He wanted to turn around and go back. He shouldn't have been here.

What was Alfred trying to prove, anyway?

He didn't move.

Time to get the hell out of here.

Alfred would have none of it, however, and made sure he knew that there would be no getting out of this, sending him a smile that was tottering dangerously on being a leer when he edged backwards.

Why had he ever been nice to Alfred? He had become so bold all of a sudden...

"Well! If you don't want to do it on your own, I don't have a problem holding your hand and walkin' you across."

Ludwig snapped his eyes up, feeling the warmth rushing to his cheeks, and it was with a glare and a 'hmph' that he lifted his foot in the air, and carried on.

No amount of gloom would ever merit him having someone hold his hand just to take a step.

He was going to just write that one off and pretend that Alfred had never said it in the first place.

Another step, and then another.

No bolt of lightening came down and struck him. No disaster swept over them, for stepping across that wire. And Alfred had been right—the first step was the hardest. Afterwards, it was just like walking anywhere else.

Nothing to fear.

Flirting with danger wasn't exactly new to him, anyhow. Even if coming here had still been forbidden, he still wouldn't have been afraid.

Actually, the prospect of Alfred ever actually grabbing his hand was much more terrifying than anything else he could have ever come across on this side.

Hard to say why.

He glanced over at Alfred from time to time, and kept his hands in his pockets, just in case.

They walked along, and were left quite alone.

No one second-glanced them.

Why should they? Just two guys, walking down the street.

All the same, it was the first time Ludwig could say that he had actually been able to walk down these particular streets without fearing that he would run into unfriendly faces.

Was Alfred's father walking around somewhere now?

"Hey, you hungry?" Alfred suddenly asked, and before Ludwig could even reply, he had taken a hold of his arm and was dragging him off to the side.

Ludwig had time only to glance up, wide-eyed, and catch sight of the diner that Alfred was pulling him towards.

And it was a damn good thing that Alfred had blindsided him like that, because otherwise Ludwig would've run off in the other direction, using his long legs for all their worth to make Alfred eat his dust.

He had passed this little diner once or twice, but he knew the crowd that ate here, and he knew he wasn't really welcome.

Alfred dragged him through the door all the same.

This might have been the time that Alfred had put his hand out too quickly. Because a bite was fuckin' comin' alright—

Too late.

He missed his chance, the second that Alfred somehow managed to drag him through the threshold.

Once inside, he didn't really have much of a choice, for fear of making a scene, and it was a mortifying feeling, being dragged along and then being physically pushed down in that booth and tucking his hands into his lap, glowering down at the table and wishing that he would just keel over dead instead.

This place.

The bright red color of the seats and ceiling did little to change the fact that he wanted to pitch a fit. Red lamps, hanging over the tables. Rock and roll playing on the radio. Chatter. A friendly atmosphere.

Not meant for him.

The waitress, bubbly and big-haired, was quick to saunter over, and Ludwig could feel his brow ever lowering as she hung over Alfred quite flirtatiously, chewing the end of her pen and placing a hand on her hip.

Her voice dripped honey as she asked, "What'll ya have, handsome?"

Annoyance.

Hmph. Alfred being handsome was suddenly a regretful fact. Who'd she think she was, anyway? Did Alfred know her? How often did the son of a bitch come in here?

Goddamn.

His head was muddled.

Alfred, enjoying attention as he always did, leaned back into the booth with uncanny confidence, smiled up at her, and was quick to order a Coke and a hamburger.

The waitress turned her gaze to him, just as friendly, and when she leaned over him and crooned, "What about you, hun?" he coulda just sank into the floor.

Actually, he tried to, and was so low in the booth that his boots were clunking into Alfred's seat.

Far beyond embarrassed, he muttered thickly, "Coffee, please."

A short silence, and then she asked, gently, "What was that?"

Oh, God.

He was gonna have a heart attack.

Alfred was trying to kill him, he was sure of it now.

Seeing his red face and pursed lips, Alfred came to his rescue, and said, "He'll have the same thing."

She sent him an odd look, but said, "Sure!" all the same, and wandered off.

It was then, perhaps, that he realized that Alfred was pretty much treating him like a girl. Making decisions for him. Dragging him along for the ride. Threatening to hold his hand. Ordering for him, even.

If he hadn't been so goddamn humiliated, he probably would have reached across the table to punch Alfred in the face and then storm out. Had he been a little more vociferous, he might have snarled, as he went, 'I am _not_ your girlfriend!'

"You alright?" Alfred asked, suddenly, and when Ludwig opened his mouth to answer, only a strangled mumble came out.

Fuckin' fuck, he couldn't even form _words_ anymore he was so embarrassed.

As it was, he couldn't even pry his eyes upward, let alone clench his fist, and was fairly certain that he was so red he looked like he could have burst into flames at any second.

Murdering Alfred had suddenly jumped to the top of his priority list.

When the waitress returned and set their drinks down on the table, he couldn't even lift his head to thank her, and knew that she was sending him strange looks.

Probably wondering what his problem was.

Or maybe what _their _problem was.

Christ, he felt so out of place here.

Alfred started slurping on his drink like everything was right in the world, and Ludwig finally gathered the courage to lift his eyes.

Wished right off that he hadn't.

People were staring at them.

Maybe not because of him, maybe not because they knew Alfred, but perhaps they stared at them just because of the air that _surrounded _Alfred.

Ludwig looked at him, really looked at him, and realized that Alfred was acting peculiarly.

It was odd.

It must have seemed strange to some people, the way that Alfred leaned across the table, the way his hands were clasped together and set as close to Ludwig's end as possible, the way his eyes were bright behind his glasses and the way he smiled widely enough to show off his canines, the way his boots were splayed out so far ahead that Ludwig had to keep his own pressed back against the booth just to avoid bumping them together. The way his voice had gone from loud and powerful to a low murmur, and the way that with every sentence he spoke, his neck craned forward and sent him ever farther across the table before falling back in place.

Just the way that Alfred was acting was enough to draw unwanted attention.

The way Alfred was gawking at him.

The way Alfred was smiling at him.

Honestly, Ludwig didn't understand. This whole thing was still a bit above him, and he couldn't quite place the motions Alfred made.

This had all gone so _fast_ that he hadn't really had time to process it.

Alfred had happened too quickly.

He'd never really been exposed to anything like this. Antonio and Felicia were intimate with him, but when Antonio leaned towards him and pressed their cheeks together or bumped his head, it was easy-going and hardly anything that made him think twice. Felicia's hands were often upon him, but when she smiled at him and put her fingers around his own, it was non-threatening and friendly.

Not like this. Somehow, Alfred was exceedingly intense, whether he intended to be or not. Ludwig found he couldn't even meet Alfred's gaze for more than a second, and that was something he had never had a problem with before.

Before, Alfred had squirmed under his gaze.

Now...

Well, every person was different. Maybe this was just Alfred, the real Alfred, feeling comfortable around him.

He could get used to it, after a while. If he tried.

He had gotten used to Felicia's friendly hands and the way that she had no problem running her fingers over every part of him.

He had gotten used to Antonio pressing their heads together and sometimes kissing him on the cheek during an important occasion.

He could get used to Alfred staring at him like that.

Honestly, even though it was scary, it wasn't too bad.

After a while, the other people in the diner turned their eyes away, and Ludwig breathed a sigh of semi-relief.

Didn't last.

Alfred suddenly leaned forward against the table, eyeballing Ludwig in a rather alarming manner, and it didn't take Ludwig long to realize why he looked so excited.

"Say," he began, eyes wide and smile wider, "Um, I was wondering."

"What?" Ludwig asked, warily.

Alfred just beamed.

A short silence, as Alfred gathered his thoughts, and then he spoke.

Wished soon that he had just ignored it, because the words Alfred said then were slow, clumsy, and exceedingly hard to understand.

"Kann ick die Nackt verbringen heute Abend?"

Ludwig stared at him, and he knew his eyes were wide and that his mouth was hanging open a little.

..._what_?

He coulda just slapped his forehead. Christ almighty, if Alfred had been intending to humiliate him, then it had fuckin' worked.

Lifting his chin and sending Alfred a glance of irritation, he said, primly, "I have _no _idea what you just said."

Even though he kinda did.

Alfred had no doubt _meant _to say, 'Can I spend the night tonight?'

...instead of saying more like, 'Can I spend tonight naked?'

Oh, God.

Far from embarrassed and no doubt clueless, Alfred just grinned away at him, and replied, "Yeah. No doubt. But you're still smilin', aren't ya?"

He sent Alfred a foul glare, or at least he thought he was, until he felt that tension on his face, that unusual sensation, that pull, and realized that he actually _was _smiling.

Smiling.

A long time coming. Almost couldn't help it.

Something else followed it.

Oh, _no_. Not that. Anything but _that_.

Not here.

Here it come.

Rising out his chest, he tried his damn best to stop it, but no matter how hard he tried, he just _couldn't_—

He raised his hand to his mouth in mortification, but it was far too late.

He was already laughing.

It was Alfred now who narrowed his eyes, and said, quite easily, "Hey, knock it off! You know how long it took me to memorize that? That really hurts my feelin's."

God help him, he was so _mad _at himself for losing control, so mad, but he couldn't help it.

He hadn't laughed in so long.

Honestly, he almost couldn't remember _ever _laughing, except for maybe when he had been little and Gilbert had done something stupid.

It felt strange. He hardly recognized the sound.

Everybody was staring at them again, but this time because he was fuckin' laughing and no matter what he did he just couldn't seem to stop.

Alfred didn't laugh, but Ludwig knew it wasn't because his feelings were hurt. Not because he had spent hours trying to learn a phrase that came out mangled and was humiliated for it. Not because Ludwig's response hurt his pride.

Alfred looked _mesmerized_, or something like that, like he had found something he had always wanted, like he had been told he'd get to see a shooting star and saw a fuckin' comet instead, like he had woken up one morning and found out he owned all of Manhattan, and even though that scared the _hell _out of Ludwig he still couldn't stop cackling.

Alfred's inability to pronounce a simple 'ch' had somehow garnered a bigger reaction out of him than anything Felicia or Antonio had done in all these years.

Alfred.

Oh, Alfred.

If anyone else had said it, anyone else, he would have shaken his head or rolled his eyes. Not laugh.

How Alfred did it, he didn't know.

It felt like hours, that he just sat there in that booth and _laughed_, until his head was hurting and his eyes were watering so badly that he actually had to wipe them, and Alfred just sat there the whole time and stared at him with that same expression.

His chest ached.

He couldn't even laugh in the confines of his own home, and somehow, someway, Alfred had gotten him to do it in _this_ place, this unfamiliar, unfriendly place, somewhere by all rights he shouldn't have been at all.

Like so much else, Ludwig didn't understand it.

When his lungs were sore and he couldn't have laughed anymore if he had actually tried to, he slumped down into the booth, buried his face in his hands to stifle his moan of frustration, and shook his head.

"You're so _dumb_," was what he muttered, then, and this time Alfred did laugh.

A little.

"Yeah, I've heard that before. A couple of times."

Oh, more than a couple, no doubt.

They fell silent for a moment, and it was then that Ludwig noticed, beyond the bleariness of his eyes when he parted his fingers, that Alfred looked about as breathless as he felt. He had leaned farther across the table, if that was possible, head low and hands tucked together, and there was a certain light in his eyes that Ludwig couldn't place.

He set his chin down on his folded hands, then, and stared at Ludwig rather contently, pale lashes covering his eyes as he leered up.

"Was it that bad? I thought I did a pretty good job. Sure did sound good when I was practicing it in my room, anyway."

Ludwig did roll his eyes, then, and tried very hard not to mull the words over too much in his head. Because Alfred passing the night naked was still very, very low on his priority list.

Killing him, though, had gone back down a few notches, too.

A sudden image in his head, of Alfred standing in front of his mirror and holding a dictionary in his hand, unshaven and wild-haired, glasses perched on his nose as he waved an emphatic hand around, surely smiling quite proudly at his reflection as he thought himself a sudden German scholar.

Naked.

He buried his face in his hands again, to keep himself from a second round of mad giggling.

Alfred wasn't wearing him down.

Alfred was making him _insane_.

He knew it.

"Come on," Alfred suddenly said, with a suddenly charming smile, still peering up at him from below. "Why don't we go walk some more? You don't really wanna go _home_, now, do you? We've still got all day long for you to make fun of me."

Audacious. Shameless. Foolhardy. Arrogant.

Alfred was pressing his luck.

Honestly, though?

He _didn't_ want to go home. Not yet.

Not yet.

Alfred had turned on some kind of gravity switch, and he couldn't pull himself out of the orbit.

So he let Alfred stand and walk to the door, and followed. He didn't know where he was going, he didn't know why, and he didn't really care anymore.

Not with that strangely exhilarating pain in his chest and sides.

Years and years of darkness, suddenly wiped out by one stupid sentence.

They walked all over the place, hours, and passed by many sights, but Ludwig found himself hardly aware of any of them, not as Alfred blabbered away by his side and kept his attention constantly upon him.

They passed over the Hudson.

Then, hours later, Ludwig noticed they passed over it again.

Alfred was leading him in circles, and the whole time they had spent walking had been going absolutely nowhere.

He didn't mind. Let Alfred circle the city, if he wanted to.

As long as he kept making him feel this way.

Dazed.

The sky darkened, and night fell.

When the wind grew colder and the stars were out, Alfred led him back to the Hudson for a third time, and took him out onto the George Washington bridge, face as bright as the moon was and looking so damn _happy_.

He had seen Alfred smile. He had seen Alfred trying so hard to keep a good mood going. He had seen Alfred give every effort he had into being enthusiastic. But he hadn't ever seen him look like this.

Not like this.

Not smiling so frequently that even when he stopped there were still lines around his eyes, not walking with such energy that at times he twirled around to speak to Ludwig and then made a complete circle to turn back straight again, not talking so fervently that sometimes he had to breathe through his mouth just to catch his breath in between.

Never like this.

They settled halfway down the bridge when Alfred stopped suddenly and leaned against the railing, and Ludwig observed the situation.

Exhilaration.

It was a rather enthralling sensation.

The wind from the river whipping their hair around, their folded arms resting on freezing metal, looking out above restless water, air that was laden with distant salt-water and the flowering trees, people walking behind them even as he felt rather stopped in time, Alfred's hair lit up blue by the streetlights above them, the shiver that ran down him every so often when the wind blew harder, his numb nose and cheeks, the warm scent of Alfred's leather jacket and cologne.

The way the hairs on his arms were standing up, and mostly the way he couldn't figure out if it was because he was cold or because he was standing next to Alfred.

How Alfred's voice kept getting lower and lower, until Ludwig had to lean in closer to hear him, and how he wondered if Alfred was doing that on purpose.

How that notion made his heart hammer and stomach twist.

The river was nice, sure. The bridge was pretty at night. The lights of the city glimmered in the rippling water. Stars.

Ludwig took little notice of them, though.

Kind of hard to, when Alfred was leaning on the railing next to him, so close that their elbows nearly bumped, and kept on looking over at him. No matter how many times Ludwig turned his head, Alfred was still staring at him.

He didn't bother trying to figure it out, because this was just another mark on the long list of things he didn't understand.

He was starting to care less and less about _why_ Alfred stared at him.

Just as long as he kept doing it.

At one point, Alfred had leaned in to him, and said, "Are you cold? You can have my jacket, if you want."

Close. Too close.

Alfred's face was too close.

"No, thanks."

That was all he said. 'No, thanks.' The day before, had Alfred asked him that, he might have said, 'That ugly thing? No way.'

He wanted that look to stay on Alfred's face, and being even playfully mean might have dampened it a little.

Alfred just looked him up and down, still so damn close, and then gave a 'hm' and pulled away.

Whew.

The jacket's ugliness wasn't what had stopped him, nor was it just pride. In a way, wearing Alfred's jacket would make it feel as if a line of personal boundaries had been crossed, and if Alfred knew that he was willing to tuck himself into his jacket, then who knew what else he would come out with later on.

Alfred was already too bold as it was.

The thought of going home smelling like Alfred was a little frightening.

Mostly because it was appealing.

Something was wrong with him, that much was certain.

The night wore on.

Alfred seemed determined to keep him there as long as possible, and it was only when Alfred's stomach gave a great rumble that he seemed to realize the day was going to end, whether he wanted it to or not.

"Well," he finally said, voice a bit low with regret, "Guess it's time to take ya home, huh?"

Take him home.

And that was exactly what Alfred did, and set off down the bridge and into the road, Ludwig at his side.

Ludwig felt silly, in a way.

Escorted home, like a damn girl.

The third time today that Alfred had made him feel like a woman. How did this keep happening?

A little shameful.

...not quite unpleasant, if he were truthful.

Kinda nice to have someone new paying attention to him.

All the same, Alfred would be put in place very soon, and taught that today was an exception, not the rule.

Soon. But not just yet.

As they walked, he could feel Alfred's eyes upon him from time to time, but he had stopped speaking.

When his house was visible, he couldn't really understand why he felt a little down. By all rights, he should have been glad to be rid of Alfred, and yet every step he took kept feeling heavier and heavier.

The steps came far too soon.

They fell still before them, and it was rather depressing, in a way, to think that when he finally took a step forward, today was officially over.

Something wrong with him, alright.

Alfred, hands tucked in his pockets, finally heaved a great sigh, and, obviously sharing the sentiment, said, "I tried settin' my watch back, but the time on the clocks kept on movin'. Guess I didn't try hard enough."

Ludwig scoffed.

Well, if Alfred ever did find out a way to stop or reverse time, then maybe he wasn't so dumb after all.

He tried to say something, couldn't think of anything, and stayed silent.

Regret.

Alfred looked up at his house then, tilted his head, and finally said, "You know! You really gotta get rid of those damn bars on your window. What if I ever need to climb up there one day?"

Ludwig turned to him, pulse pounding and flooded with adrenaline, and replied, perhaps too quickly, "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

Alfred blew air through his teeth in false relief, and wiped his brow.

"Whew. Thanks! Came out wrong, anyway."

Sure it had.

Not even the most embarrassing thing Alfred had said that day.

Alfred turned back to him, and that look was back when he said, in barely more than a whisper, "You never did answer me before. Can I?"

The way Alfred stared at him had become so daunting.

That look.

No one had ever looked at him quite like that.

If he had been feeling like a smartass then, he would have replied, 'No, you may not spend the night naked.'

Instead, he kept his gaze ahead, intimidated by Alfred's boldness, and just said, "No. You can't."

"I kinda figured."

Hardly hurt.

Nothing Alfred hadn't expected.

"Well, then," he added, "I guess this is goodnight."

With that, he turned, and started moving.

Ludwig found himself very much in place.

Alfred walked off, as he had so many times, and somehow, it was Ludwig who was left standing helplessly behind, stuck on the steps and shoulders slumped, watching Alfred's back and finding himself wishing, _wishing_, that Alfred would turn around.

Turn around.

Alfred didn't, not that day, and Ludwig watched him saunter down the street, strides strong and wide, until he was gone.

He stood there, arms loose at his sides, and he couldn't put his finger on what it was that made him feel so damn...

Unsatisfied.

He wanted Alfred to come back.

Something in that could not have been normal, and it certainly wasn't anything he had ever wanted, to be putting his happiness into someone else's hands.

All he could do was walk back inside, sit down, and wish that he could wake up in the morning to this exact same day.

Wouldn't be so bad, being stuck for the rest of time in this day.

Alfred was gone, and he was alone again.

Couldn't stand it.

When he was alone, it felt as if the walls closed in and air was thin.

Living in dim, stale light.

When Alfred showed his face, the sun came out and breathing was easy.

It was in that moment, feeling so lost all of a sudden, that he had finally realized it.

He had lost to Alfred.

He hated that feeling of helplessness. Oh, damn did he _ever_. Hated it.

Conceding.

Letting someone else take control.

And yet, somehow, he still found himself as a moth, fluttering around dreamily in the dark night, lifted up by warm currents and putting his faith into that comforting glow that might lead to his downfall.

Drawn to Alfred's light.

The way Alfred looked at him.


	13. Sabre Waltz

**A/N : **Sorryyyyyyy for the wait. You know, the world cup has consumed me for the past month. And it was absolutely worth it in the end. Anywho, I'm back now. I like this chapter. In a bad way. :/ Thanks for reading, as always. Sorry for inconsistent chapter lengths, also.

I made a tumblr, if you didn't know. Feel free to check it out, even though it's all football shit right now. twi-go (tumblr) .com.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

**Sabre Waltz**

Spring was high.

Matthew's patience eventually paid off, if only a little.

It was only because Alfred knew for certain that Matthew would be more than happy to take Ludwig's hand that he brought him along at all that day.

Matthew performed with flying colors, as Alfred knew he would.

Nice guy like that.

Alfred had worried, maybe, that Matthew would be a little stiff around Ludwig, perhaps out of jealousy, but when they finally came face to face on that old corner, Matthew had just beamed like the sun and stuck out a hand before Alfred could even introduce him.

"How ya doin'? I'm Matthew. Nice to meet you, finally."

Nothing in the world could have ever been better than seeing Ludwig's look of relief as Matthew had been so damn friendly to him.

"Ludwig."

There was no ill-will on either side. No hesitations.

If Matthew was irritated that Alfred only wanted to hang out with him when Ludwig was around, then he didn't show it, because, in the end, Matthew was probably the only one out of all of them who was truly a good person in every single way.

Why Matthew still called him 'friend', Alfred would never know.

Sure was glad he did, though.

And if Ludwig was irritated that Alfred had brought along a second uninvited guest, then he didn't say a damn thing and was as polite as always.

The handshake ended, Ludwig's tense shoulders dropped and Matthew kept on smiling, and Alfred was quick to insert himself in between them, because he disliked Ludwig's attention being on anyone else, even for a second.

His friend.

Matthew sent him a raised brow of exasperation, but, as patient as Ludwig was, he didn't say a word.

"So," Alfred finally said, squirming himself into their sights, "I was thinking we could go to the harbor."

"Sure," Matthew said, and Ludwig just stood there patiently and waited for Alfred to do whatever he wanted.

He had always been more than a little domineering, and both of them knew that well enough by now. They humored him when he started walking, and when the crowds grew a bit thinner, he couldn't help but throw his arms up and sling them around the shoulders of Matthew and Ludwig.

His ability to insert himself had always been skillful, but he was fully ready to admit that if Matthew hadn't been there, he wouldn't have had the courage to reach up and touch Ludwig at all.

Both of them at the same time could be cast aside as 'Alfred's just that kinda guy.' Putting his arm around Matthew's shoulder, had it been only them, would have been no great task.

Putting an arm around Ludwig, though...

He needed a little extra bravery for that.

A tense beneath his arm, a quick glance, but after a few steps Ludwig started relaxing and let him keep it there.

What a relief. Coulda died there for a minute, if Ludwig had squirmed out from beneath him.

Matthew didn't flinch; he'd been used as an arm-rest for years now.

He led them along, and every so often, Matthew leaned forward and caught Ludwig's eye. And, well, it wasn't exactly intentional, but every time that Matthew opened his mouth and tried to engage Ludwig, Alfred was quick to interrupt.

Couldn't help it. Ludwig was _his _friend.

Anyway, this entire meeting had been set on his terms, so he should be the one directing every move.

It said a lot about both Matthew and Ludwig, perhaps, that they were able to put up with him.

Matthew didn't get a chance to speak as they walked along to the harbor, and even when they stood on a pier and overlooked the bay, Alfred heard himself babbling on.

Matthew and Ludwig eventually took to communicating in other ways since the airwaves were full of Alfred.

At one point, Matthew lifted up his brows, and Ludwig shrugged a shoulder.

Alfred spoke louder.

Was it anxiety about what they might say to each other that forced his mouth to move? The fear that Matthew would speak, and Ludwig would like what he heard? That, as much as Ludwig had replaced Matthew, that maybe Matthew would replace him someday.

That Matthew and Ludwig would become friends, and Alfred would become the third wheel.

That they would see the good in each other, and cast him aside for his faults.

Scary, to say the least.

He'd given up everything for Ludwig.

He wanted Matthew and Ludwig to meet, yeah. He wanted them to see each other once and introduce themselves.

That was it. He didn't want anything between them beyond that, except for maybe future conversation brought about in boredom that saw one or the other ask, 'Why didn't you bring that guy you know?'

Still, it was fair to give credit where credit was due, and when Ludwig wandered away to stare down from the pier, Alfred turned around and slapped Matthew gently on the back, leaning in and whispering, "Thanks a bunch. Don't know what I'd do without ya."

Just for being nice to Ludwig.

Matthew just smiled, and looked more at ease than Alfred had seen him in a long time.

"Ah," came the reply, "Looks like you do just fine on your own."

Yup.

He puffed in pride, turned to gawk at Ludwig from afar, and asked, "Do you like him? He's nice, isn't he?"

Matthew nodded his head, and Alfred could feel him scrutinizing him from head to toe.

"Yeah. He's nice. You really took to him, didn't ya?"

It was Alfred's turn to nod.

"Guess so."

Seagulls squawked overhead. The sound of waves pounding the wooden docks. Ship horns in the distance.

Everything felt right.

Ludwig was staring at the water in awe. The first time since he had gotten here that he had seen the ships, no doubt, being unable to wander much before.

Glints of white, as the sun hit Ludwig's pale hair.

If Alfred could have seen himself, perhaps, he would have been interested in the way he had slouched back, hands in his pockets, and the way his lips had twisted into a crooked smile. The way his feet were splayed in ease and how his head didn't hurt.

Just watching Ludwig.

Happiness.

When Ludwig came back over shortly after, meeting Alfred's eyes as he passed in a glance that felt like years, it seemed to Alfred suddenly that 'war' was just a word.

War. How could such a thing ever exist, anyway? Nothing on earth could have gotten him to go to war right now, not when Ludwig was around. Didn't all those men that went overseas have someone that made them feel that way? How could anyone ever want to hate when looking at someone who made them happy?

Didn't this feel better? Had to!

War was just a word.

For the first time, as Alfred zoned in and out, Matthew finally managed to get a few words in.

Alfred let him speak, though with more reluctance than was necessary.

What harm would it do? Not like he was jealous, or anything...

Matthew was as harmless as they came.

"I'm glad I finally got to meet you. I've heard enough about ya to probably write a book or something, but it's still nice to actually meet you."

Ludwig's brow lifted, and he spared a quick glare at Alfred before asking, "Heard that much, huh?"

Matthew didn't help by chirping, "Heard everything possible, believe me!"

Didn't sound very good coming out of Matthew's mouth, and Alfred opened his own to defend himself, but Ludwig beat him to the chase and griped, "Don't believe everything he says."

"Don't worry," Matthew said. "I wish someone would say those kinda things about me."

Bullshit! When had all these conversations taken place?

Matthew was trying to get him killed.

Alfred caught Ludwig's eye and tried to play it off, but the flush on his cheeks was unstoppable.

Was he smiling? He was pretty sure he was smiling like an idiot.

Ludwig glanced quickly at Matthew, and said, in an effort to change the subject, "Are you from around here? You don't talk like he does."

_ He _being Alfred and his city accent, and Matthew opened his mouth.

Before he could say anything, though, Alfred laughed and clapped Matthew on the shoulder affectionately, still jittery, and said, "Ah, that's 'cause Matt's a frostback!"

Matthew sent him a testy look, and Ludwig lifted up his chin, turning his eyes to Alfred as he asked, curiously, "A what?"

"I'm Canadian," Matthew interjected, before Alfred could speak again, and something in Ludwig's gaze shifted, as if a candle had been snuffed out.

After that, things seemed to get a little quiet.

A few awkward minutes later, Matthew wandered out of earshot, eyeballing a docking ship in what might have been a merciful distraction, and Ludwig crept closer to Alfred's side.

Alfred was so dumbfounded by the _sight_ of him that it took a while to realize Ludwig's look was a little sharp. Didn't worry about it too much, though, because there were better things to focus on.

Ludwig's hair had come loose in the wind from the sea.

"What's his name? Matt?"

"Uh-huh," he replied, with a dumb nod.

Goddamn, Ludwig's eyes were so fuckin' pretty—

"Isn't he your friend?" Ludwig suddenly asked, completely out of the blue, and for a moment Ludwig had leaned in, and it took a great deal of effort for Alfred to stop ogling Ludwig long enough to comprehend his words.

Ludwig's eyes were the same color as the sky.

"Yeah," Alfred finally said, earnestly, "He's my best—well, he's one of my best friends! Actually, he's kinda like my brother."

Ludwig wasn't smiling.

Alfred tried hard to pay attention, he really did, but he found his eyes wandering down to the open collar that was fluttering about in the wind, as Ludwig's eyes squinted to accommodate sunlight and wind, hair lit up white.

Pale and bright in the ocean breeze.

The shade of Ludwig's skin nearly blended into the white of his shirt.

What was it about Ludwig that captivated him?

Everything.

Everything about Ludwig was enthralling.

"You love him?" Ludwig asked, and Alfred shuffled his feet a little in embarrassment.

"I guess," was his anxious response, and he couldn't help but fidget a bit. Had he done something strange? Had he said something odd? If Ludwig wanted him to, he'd definitely be willing to add, 'but not as much as you!'

In a way, he hoped that Ludwig was jealous, because he wanted Ludwig to think about him every second of every fuckin' day, and honestly he didn't care if that made him selfish or strange.

Ludwig being jealous meant that Ludwig cared, even if he wouldn't say it aloud.

But what was really bothering Ludwig finally came to light, and he asked, standing straight and tall with his hands in his pockets, "So, then. Why do you call him that?"

"Huh?" was his idiotic response.

Ludwig turned his squinted eyes out to the ships, and looked a little depressed suddenly.

Something Alfred hadn't wanted to see again.

He'd worked hard to get Ludwig out of that rut.

"You don't know what it feels like," Ludwig whispered, loose hair whipping around his face in the breeze. "To be so far away from home. You shouldn't call him that."

His enthrallment was replaced with something close to mortification.

He opened his mouth, fumbled his response, and fell still. He was glad that Ludwig was watching the water then, because he couldn't seem to keep his face from falling.

Why _did _he call him that?

It wasn't anything bad. It was just a name. Matthew knew his teasing had always been of affection.

Didn't he?

He scrunched his brow, mind whirring away, and something struck him.

All those dour looks from Matthew.

That was the first time that he had ever actually stood there, looked back upon it all, and realized that maybe he had been hurting Matthew's feelings the whole damn time.

His chest started aching, a little.

His father had said 'frostback' for so long, that after a while...

So many dark glances.

Fidgeting.

After a while, Alfred had just assumed it was normal. It was just a name. Names didn't hurt anybody.

But, oh, damn, had it ever hurt Ludwig to be called a Nazi.

Maybe not so different, after all.

Matthew had been patient, alright. In more ways than he had anticipated. All those years. Why hadn't he parted ways with Alfred and sought out another friend?

Matthew was too nice.

Still had enough goodwill to cast Alfred in a good light to Ludwig, too.

He felt like an asshole.

That was the first time in months that something aside from Ludwig had been predominant in his mind, and it wasn't really a pleasant sensation.

The walk back was silent on his part, and he let Matthew and Ludwig walk side by side and chat without interrupting them. His mind was elsewhere, and his will had suddenly evaporated.

So much so, that when Ludwig was dropped off at his doorstep, Alfred barely managed a mangled wave of goodbye. Ending a night with Ludwig suddenly wasn't the thing that made him feel the shittiest.

The last time he had felt this bad, Ludwig had slapped him.

How had Ludwig made him feel the same way with just one fuckin' sentence?

He and Matthew carried on to their own streets, and Alfred looked over at him from time to time, trying to think of something to say.

Anything.

The streets were as noisy as always, but seemed far too quiet.

When he finally spoke, though, he fumbled, like always.

"Matt," he said, too loudly and too briskly, "I'm—I'm sorry, you know, if I ever said anything that... If I ever hurt your feelings or something, when I was talkin'."

Lame.

All the same, Matthew just smiled, and waved him off.

"Ah, hey. Don't worry about it. Everybody should allowed to be dumb at least once, right?"

Finally, Alfred smiled, too.

Matthew's way of saying, 'I forgive you.'

He was grateful, because apologizing was hard for him.

When they parted ways, Matthew sent him a strange smile that Alfred had never seen before, and when he spoke, his voice was strange, too.

"What a nice day. You and him—I think he really brings out the best in you, Alfred. Be careful, though. You know I've got your back in everything, but maybe you should be a little more careful."

Careful?

"What do you mean?" he asked, and Matthew's smile widened.

"Discretion, Alfred, it's all discretion. Come on, haven't you ever heard that? 'Discretion is the better part of valor'. You and him are great and all, but just remember to be careful. Don't worry about too much right now. Listen, I gotta go, but we'll talk about it some more later."

With that, Matthew darted off, and Alfred realized a little later that the smile had actually been a leer.

Well.

That had been a little odd, and maybe Alfred would have focused more on the latter part of Matthew's words if that one sentence hadn't stuck in his head.

Ludwig did bring out the best in him, it seemed.

On his own, he might never have figured out that he had been knocking Matthew down.

In a way, Ludwig was like a second set of glasses.

'You and him.'

* * *

><p>Every day now, it seemed like he woke up by jumping into a pit of sand.<p>

Walking was hard. His feet felt unbalanced and heavy. Wobbling to and fro. He'd never really been all that light on his feet, but nowadays it seemed as if he found his way around by playing bumper-cars with objects.

He walked into the coffee table once, thinking only about getting outside to freedom, and his father looked up and said, 'Time for new glasses?'

Alfred shook his head and replied, 'Nah. Just clumsy is all.'

At work, he found new and inventive ways to hurt himself when he stopped paying attention. He had nearly made his hand an extension of an engine when he had looked out towards the street and thought he saw a gleam of platinum. He had wrenched his fingers back in the nick of time when he had realized it was a false alarm, and his coworker had sent him a smile, saying, 'You're gonna die in here if you don't stop watching skirts.'

Alfred sent him a dumb smile, rubbed at his hand, and he didn't know why he said, 'Thought I saw a guy I know.'

His coworker shook his head, and just said, 'Sure, Alfred.'

He paid attention, didn't lose any fingers, and yet still managed to bang his head on the underside of a car the next day as he was contemplating whether the best word to describe the blue of Ludwig's eyes was sky or cerulean.

The day after, he dropped a tire on his foot.

Probably cerulean.

Ludwig was gonna be the death of him.

He often found himself staring off into space and wondering how Ludwig would have looked if he had taken the jacket that night. Trying to envision the fit and the contrast of colors. Ludwig and he had very different senses of fashion; seeing Ludwig in his clothes would have somehow seemed like a triumph.

Of what, he couldn't say.

A conquest of sorts. Ludwig in his jacket would have been his equivalent of raising the flag on Iwo Jima.

To say that Ludwig trusted him.

The 'why' didn't matter so much. Ludwig made him happy. That was all that was important.

He started measuring time by the intervals between seeing Ludwig and being without him.

Night and day.

In the few moments he found himself free, he reached under his bed, pulled the dictionary out, and plotted a way to get Ludwig to smile. Not to laugh, as he had unwittingly made him. Ludwig smiling was his next priority. Rather, a real smile.

Hadn't seen that yet.

Most days, he sat on the couch and zoned into the atmosphere as clumsy words ran through his head.

Couldn't ever think of anything that sounded right.

What could he ever say to make a guy like Ludwig smile the way he wanted?

Outside, the sky was grey and clouded.

A heavy hand plopped down on his shoulder, and he looked up to see his old man's mug.

The hell had he come from? Lately, Alfred had almost forgotten that the old guy existed.

The same couldn't be said of his father's attention towards him.

"Arthur and Alice are coming over tonight. Go clean yourself up. We can still try to get you settled."

No thanks!

"Sorry," he lied, "I've already got somewhere to be."

His father's brow lowered as he leapt up and edged to the door, and when he flung it open, the last thing he heard was a deep mutter.

"With _him_?"

Alfred dignified it with no answer, not with a tone like that, and slipped out.

The fresh air was welcome, as was getting out of that house.

Ha. With him.

He'd rather be with _him_, yeah, but that wasn't where he ran to that time.

Maybe just because he didn't understand why everybody suddenly seemed so damn interested in where he was going and why.

Why everybody was so fascinated with the friendship he had built up with Ludwig.

Who understood these things?

Only one guy he knew.

Francis could, perhaps, shed light upon it a little more.

Dysfunctional relationships were Francis' specialty. So he cast aside any lingering feelings of disappointment, walked up those steps, and knocked.

It had been a while. It wasn't fair, but he had avoided Francis since then.

Unease.

Forgotten quickly, apparently, on both sides.

Francis' smile was like the sun when he pulled open the door and saw Alfred, and it was obvious that he was relieved that there were apparently no hard feelings between them.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and yanked him in.

Arms wrapped around him, and he found himself smothered in an embrace that nearly lifted him off the floor. Francis was too proud to say that he was glad Alfred had forgiven him, so he hugged instead.

It struck Alfred right off, during that hug, that Francis smelled a bit like his sister; he had been rustling about in her old room, no doubt.

Afterwards, the scent of wine.

"I'm glad you came by! I was just sitting here, drinking by myself."

Loose, messy hair framed an already red face, a shirt collar was unbuttoned, and Alfred couldn't help but smile.

"By yourself? Where's the fun in that?"

A hand on his back pushed him into the kitchen.

Francis always led him straight into the kitchen, no matter what time of day he came by. Wouldn't complain, he supposed, since he was usually treated with wine and food.

Francis spoiled him because someone else was missing.

He quickly forgot why he came over.

"Sit!"

Alfred was already sitting. He smiled anyway, and scooted his chair closer to the table to appease his uncle.

"Drink?"

"Sure."

A glass was filled before him, and they made small talk about nothing as Francis ogled Alfred as hard as Alfred ogled Ludwig.

Honestly?

Kinda nice.

He hoped Ludwig felt that way when Alfred was staring.

Francis just leered away at him over the rim of the glass, not caring if his staring made anyone uncomfortable or not, and then he spoke up.

"Can I ask you something, Alfred?"

"What?"

A little twinge of nervousness.

"Your friend. What's his name?"

Oh. Whew.

He hated being put on the spot under normal circumstances, but the mention of Ludwig was enough to get him to break into a great smile, and he said, eagerly, "Ludwig."

If the sound of a German name coming from Alfred bothered him any, Francis didn't let on.

"How is it?"

"Ludwig."

Francis' look grew a little warmer, and he leaned back in his chair as he said, "Why don't you tell me a little about him?"

A little?

He could blabber all damn day about Ludwig, and, come to think, that was pretty much what he did.

"He's a great guy. You'll like him, once you actually get to know him. He's smart. He doesn't talk a lot, but you can tell, you know? Lookin' at him, you can tell. He's quiet. He makes me feel like I never shut up! You know, we've known each other for five years, and we never said a word to each other until a few months ago. I watched him walk all the time and never stopped to say 'hello.'"

"You're not the only one, Alfred," came Francis' gentle mutter.

Granted.

Didn't make him a better person, though.

"You think I woulda said something, though, as much as I saw him. You can see him comin' a mile away. He's so pale. You'd never miss him. Have you heard him talk yet? I mean, I always liked your accent, you know, but his! Oh, man, it's a trip, you've just gotta hear it. It's like... I can't even do it justice. You'll just have to hear it. If you can get him to talk once, you'll never stop trying."

Francis just watched him the whole while he spoke, and when his fervent hands finally fell still in his lap, maybe Francis could see the sudden melancholy that he felt.

"He's so nice. Even back then, when I was—he never hit me. He shoulda, he really shoulda, because I was such an ass, but he never did. Well, he hit me once, but the funny thing was that he hit me when I was tryin' to be his friend. Guess I deserved that, though. I got his fuckin' dog killed, and he still let me stand there and didn't try to punch me. He still let me try."

Thinking about it...

Sometimes, he wondered if Ludwig was really just a saint, wandering the earth. No one should ever have been as nice as Ludwig was. That he was still able to laugh, after everything had been said and done.

Ludwig was what everyone should have been.

His smile came back up, as quickly as it had fallen, and the melancholy dissipated.

Hard to stay gloomy when Ludwig was on his mind, not with how well everything had been going lately.

Feeling weightless and jittery, Alfred leaned his chin in his palm, grabbed his glass in the other hand, and summed up, simply, "He's really great. I can't wait for you to meet him. I know you'll like him."

He didn't really think about anything he had said, didn't really consider that maybe his endless blabbering would have sounded strange to someone else who didn't know Ludwig.

Maybe a guy shouldn't have said those things in such a breathless voice about another guy.

It just didn't seem that strange to _him_.

Ludwig was worth gushing over, as far as he was concerned. Ludwig had earned that much, at least that much.

Francis just smiled, a bit half-heartedly, and finally muttered, "He means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

No hesitation.

"Yeah. Yeah, he does."

Ludwig meant everything.

Ludwig was the only thing he could look back on in his entire life and say that it was worth it.

Francis was silent for a while after that, as Alfred rested his hands on the table and let himself fall back into his head.

Talking about Ludwig had taken a weight off of him somehow. Things he had been dying to say to somebody.

The clock ticked.

Outside, the sky was dark. Rain fell. Flashes of lightning across the horizon, coloring the clouds pink and grey.

Francis was looking a little tipsy.

Time to go, before the storm got worse.

He pushed his chair back, clapped Francis on the back, and made his move.

Didn't get far.

"Alfred," Francis said, as Alfred stood up.

"Hm?"

A long, hard look.

"I'm still sorry, you know?"

Alfred smiled.

"I know."

He meant to leave, and was interrupted again.

"Alfred."

Another, "Hm?"

Francis' look was a little strange this time.

"If you... Well, that is, if you and him... Maybe you should be a little more careful with this whole thing around your father. For now. I love hearin' you talk about him, but I hope you're careful."

'You and him'.

The second time he had heard that now. That was what he had come over for, and hadn't even tried to ask.

He had gotten distracted.

So, he just asked, awkwardly, "Have I been doing something weird? Everyone's been acting strange lately. Or is that just me?"

Francis smiled.

"You're always weird, Alfred. I wouldn't worry about what anyone else thinks. Everyone's strange in their own way, you know. It's just nice to see you like this, I guess. Everyone's noticed how different you are."

He didn't see himself as different, and he didn't quite understand what Francis was alluding to, not exactly, but shrugged a shoulder all the same.

"Don't worry about it. It'll be alright."

His father already hated Ludwig, he knew that. Had known that all along, and Francis had too.

Ludwig had been his father's worst nightmare for years.

Why give a warning now?

He turned to the door.

Weird.

The doorknob was clutched in his palm. Didn't twist it yet, though.

At the last moment, Alfred whirled around, feeling anxious suddenly, and he asked, loudly, "Can I ask _you _something?"

Francis smiled.

"Sure."

He didn't know why he asked, except for that it had been bothering him.

"Why didn't you shake his hand?"

He had thought Francis would start fidgeting, but he didn't. Instead, that smile stayed strong, and he just lifted a shoulder up into the air.

"I guess he just wasn't what I was expecting at the time."

Alfred knew his brow had crinkled.

"How so?"

"Ah, don't worry about it, Alfred. That was just me being stupid. You didn't do anything wrong. Neither did he. I was just surprised, is all. The way you cleaned yourself up, and all, I was expecting... Don't worry about it."

Confusion.

Francis' smile was dangerously wide.

"Anyway, I'll make it up to you. I choked last time, but I have a feeling that I haven't seen the last of _him_, have I?"

Alfred could only say, dumbly, "Guess not."

To be fair, confused or not, that was the truth. If he had his way, Ludwig would be around until the end of time itself.

"But," Alfred pressed, "It's not... I mean, it wasn't because he made you uncomfortable was it? Was it because... You know. The war and all."

This time, Francis' smile seemed forced.

Before he could find his answer, Alfred added, "Because, I know that you had a hard time. But he doesn't have a family because of it, either. And he still got to know me."

Too harsh, maybe, in a way, but it didn't seem fair for some to hold grudges when others didn't, just because of whose 'side' they'd been on.

Francis looked tired all of a sudden.

"I'm trying, Alfred. I guess it's easier for you kids, you know? You can help me out. But that wasn't why."

Easy? None of this had been easy. It had been will-power, for both of them.

Francis just hadn't tried.

Couldn't be angry, though, and he tried to smile.

"Thanks."

"Night, Alfred."

"Night."

Feeling a little out in space, Alfred left Francis' house behind and began the trek towards his own.

Going over there had only answered questions with questions.

What was with everyone lately?

Had he been acting so strange?

_They_ were the ones acting strange.

Matthew had all but forced him towards Ludwig and now was telling him to pull it back.

Francis, a troublemaker himself, had always encouraged his spontaneity and now was advising caution.

Maybe they were messin' with him, because he couldn't really see what was so different now than before. What had Matthew thought would happen when Alfred finally managed to befriend Ludwig? Francis knew damn well how he acted, and hadn't ever told him to be careful in front of the old man before.

Just because Ludwig was a German? They'd known that all along.

Something else?

Aw, hell—he wasn't even gonna worry about it, because it was making his head hurt.

Better to daydream about Ludwig instead.

When in doubt, think about Ludwig. That seemed to be his favorite pastime activity now.

Ludwig. He'd _almost_ gotten that stubborn bastard to take his jacket, he was sure of it.

Almost.

He couldn't really even fathom what he would have felt if Ludwig had actually accepted. Might've thrown himself off the bridge just out of happiness. A proud guy like that, relying on him for whatever reason. Nothing more satisfying.

His flag.

Next time.

His house was in front of him.

One day, Ludwig would look at him and say, 'I'm glad we're friends.' He was sure of it.

He'd make it happen, one way or another, because Ludwig made him happy.

Their words of caution hardly lingered in his mind now.

'It'll be alight,' he had said.

Sure.

Famous last words.

When he pushed open the door, his father was standing there in the living room, near the hall, mesmerized by something, and Alfred's heart start hammering so fast that he was sure he could have thrown up right there.

Arthur and Alice weren't here; his father's attention was held by something else.

The old man was holding an object, and, somehow, Alfred knew damn well what it was.

A book.

He had rummaged through the old man's room when he had been gone, and maybe the old man had been doing the same to Alfred's. Stupid. He should have known better than to keep that book here. Should have left it over at Francis'.

Absently, his father flipped pages back and forth with a thumb, and then he gave a weak scoff.

A look that almost seemed betrayed.

"I was waiting for you. Took a look around. This is what you've been doin' in your spare time, huh?"

Alfred stood still, and gave no effort to respond.

"I was tryin' hard not to believe any of it, I really was."

Looking down, the old man flipped open the book, and the look of disgust was obvious there on his face.

The television blared in the background.

A meeting of eyes.

"Learnin' it? How's it sound? Bet it feels strange, doesn't it?"

He wanted to speak, he really did. Just didn't know what to say.

His father seemed keen on the idea, too, and lifted up his chin above the book.

"Well? Why don't you say something, huh? Say something. Show me what you've learned."

Alfred opened his mouth, foundered, and only managed to furrow his clammy brow and turn his eyes to the floor.

Oh.

He _hated _this man.

Couldn't say it.

"Nothin'? Guess you should study harder."

The silence felt long.

Stifling.

The book fell open, his father's fingers clenched a handful of pages, and somehow Alfred knew exactly what was coming.

His father's hands, once so strong and now so weak, still had the strength needed to do what he intended them to, and the sound of the pages ripping from the book hurt his chest more than his ears.

Fluttering down to the ground.

Pages. Words.

Just words.

They had meant more than that. It had been more than a book.

His old man knew it, too, and as Alfred had hurt him by going after his war trophies, his father was going after him by hitting him in the only weakness he had.

Ludwig.

The only thing he cared about.

Ludwig made him _happy_.

The scattered pages of the book lied there on the floor, and the feeling of hate was suddenly overwhelming.

He was nearing the threshold of his limit.

The rest of the book fell to the floor soon after, and their eyes met again.

Alfred wasn't really sure if he was breathing or not, because his throat felt so damn obstructed all of a sudden.

"Aren't you gonna say anything? I know you learned something. Say something."

Push, push, push, that was all the old man ever did, always pushin', always with something to say, always there to make him feel so useless and so hopeless, always forcing him to _hate _whether he wanted to or not, and oh, fuckin' _Christ_, he was pushin' too far this time, just too _far_—

"Christ, _Alfred_!" his father cried, in a loud voice that was a mixture of rage and horror and complete disbelief, "To know how many damn good men died out there, and the last thing they ever heard was someone screamin' at 'em in that awful, ugly language, and you've got a goddamn book—Jesus, to hear that comin' from your mouth, I'd have a heart attack, I swear I would! Good men! My friends! If you'd ever heard the way they were _screamin'_!"

Good men died.

The last thing they had ever heard was a soldier screeching in German against the gunfire.

He hung his head.

Good men died all the _time_.

All the time.

The war was over. Why couldn't his father get it through his head?

"Alfred, what are you doin'? Why are you doing this to me? Do you wanna see me dead? Do you? Do you want to just shame us all? I spent years out there bustin' my ass to protect you, and this _name_! Don't ya care? Well? Why are you _doing _this to me? I stood there in front of Panzers and looked back at the machine-gun bunkers, and I was _never _scared, but I am now! I don't know what's _wrong _with you!"

Panzers.

Fuckin' _Panzers_.

And then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, he was _sick _of hearing about the war.

He was sick of it. The war was over.

War wasn't just a word.

War existed because men like his father existed. Because, for some people, hate felt better than that exhilaration he felt when he was around Ludwig.

Hate.

His father's foot stomped on the pages, and it may as well have been his goddamn heart down there on the floor for the way he felt.

A shake of his father's head.

"Alfred, you don't understand—"

"You're right!" he interrupted, so sick with rage that he couldn't control himself, and he braced his feet as he resisted the urge to reach out and punch the wall, "You're right, I don't understand! The war's over, dad! It's over, you won, alright? You won! What else do ya want? You fuckin' won! Just let it die, won't you?"

His father had never let it die—how could he? It had apparently been the only moment of his life that had ever been worthwhile, and that was what Alfred could never understand.

What was the point of living at all, if a goddamn war was the best thing that had happened in your life?

Why go on? How could you ever be proud of yourself?

His father just shook his head, never understanding, and was quick to blame the only thing he could.

"You're around him too much, too much. He's got you all mixed up. He's not... You go after him so much, Alfred, I don't understand. You're my kid, always will be, and God knows I love ya, but I _can't_. You and _him_—I can't— I don't even wanna _think_—"

There it was again.

'You and him.'

His father trailed off for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, and then he finally seemed to grasp on to something tangible. His father's next words hurt, as much as anything could.

"There's somethin' wrong with you, Alfred. You're not right."

His worst fear.

His whole life had been spent feeling as though something were wrong.

As if he were _wrong_.

No.

Christ, Ludwig had actually smiled the other day, as those words had fallen so clumsily from his lips in that language, that language that the old man had told him was so ugly and had still sounded anything but when it had actually come out of his mouth, and when Ludwig had laughed—fuckin' _laughed_—he had felt _right _for once.

He wasn't the one mixed up. He wasn't.

Maybe it had become 'you and him', and so what?

He was happy that way.

If the entire earth had just died off then and he and Ludwig were the only two left, he coulda been happy with that.

So yeah.

Him and Ludwig. That was fine. Ideal.

He and his father just couldn't seem to understand each other anymore, couldn't seem to find that old camaraderie they had once had, and now it was easier than ever before to look at each other as strangers.

He didn't recognize the old man anymore, and his father surely felt the same.

Standing there, those pages lying between them like a great rift, they could only stare at each other, and oh...

He had thought it.

He wouldn't lie; it had crossed his mind before.

But this was the first time, the first and only time, that Alfred could say it.

Fists clenched and brow crinkled somewhere between anger and hurt, he looked his father in the eye, and said, softly, "I spent all that time waiting for you...and now I just wish you hadn't come back."

If his father had hurt him, then it was returned in equal proportions.

The old man's face fell, as much as it ever could, and he swallowed.

His father had said that the thing that had gotten him through the war was the thought of Alfred waiting for him at home. Knowing that that reason had grown up to hate him must have been devastating.

Too far. It had all gone too far. The breaking point had been reached.

There was no going back after those words had been uttered.

The worst part of it all, perhaps, was that he _meant _them.

He wished his father had never come back. Then he could have at least grown up with Francis and clung to the stupid notion that his old man truly had been a hero. That his father had been worth the idolization, worth the pain and the doubt.

Worth it.

That would have been better.

There was nothing else worthwhile here, not here, and Alfred saw no point in lingering. He turned around, insinuating a point of finality between them, and reached for the door.

His father, for whatever unholy reason, followed him.

"Wait—"

He had never laid a hand on his father, never, had never dreamed of it, had never wanted to do it, but when the stupid son of a bitch reached out and grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back, it was as if those old gates had opened up again, only this time hell was set loose within him.

He whirled around, and punched his father in the face.

A stunned grunt of surprise, and the old man fell to the floor with a thud.

He was quick enough to pull himself up onto his elbows, but afterwards he fell still and just looked up.

The world felt like it had stopped.

His stomach churned, and his head lit up on fire.

His father lied there, staring up at him in disbelief, and never in his life had he felt so _bad_. For so many reasons, many that he couldn't even put his finger on, and never had he thought it would ever come to this.

It never ended. It never stopped.

Hate never died.

It hurt, the things that were crossing his mind.

That he should have hit the old man harder.

That he wished he would have hit his head as he fell.

That his eyes would just shut and not open again.

Things that he should have left for his father to feel, not himself. He had pretended for so long that he was better, better, but he wasn't.

He _was _his father.

They may not have looked exactly alike, not physically, but they were hardly less than mirror images.

He could hate as much as his father could. Maybe he really was _better _at that, because he was certain that his father had at least taken some kind of joy out of his hatred, and Alfred felt more like he wanted to set fire to the entire world.

It struck him then, that he wanted to hit him again.

He wanted to.

That frightened him, in a way, and he was quick to turn around again and flee through the door.

His father yanked himself to his feet, staggering to the frame and clenching it within his hands, poking his head out and screaming after him.

"_Alfred_!"

The shriek of his name echoed through the neighborhood, but he just kept on walkin', because if he _didn't_, then he might turn around and rush the old man and just keep hittin' him until he didn't get up anymore.

He couldn't stand it.

Using his fists when talking was too hard—his old man had taught him that.

He walked towards the end of the street, breathing through his mouth and trying to keep himself from imploding, and then he stalked back, passed to the other end of the street, back and forth, back and forth, mind whirring and heart pounding and trying to figure out what the hell happened next.

When his feet moved again, he just let them take him wherever they wanted.

He should have gone to Matthew.

He should have gone to Francis.

He should have gone to anyone else. Anyone. Even Alice.

He didn't.

Francis would coddle him, and Matthew would pity him. Alice would try to soothe him.

He neither wanted nor deserved any of it.

Instead, he fumbled his way over to where he felt safest, where he would receive no sympathy, no pity, no empty words of comfort.

He wanted someone who knew him, who really knew him, someone who knew who he _really _was, what he was capable of, someone who knew that he was a bastard, someone who knew that he was perfectly adept of doing everything his father had done in the right frame of mind.

Someone who knew what it felt like to hate and be hated.

Someone who knew that the world was just _miserable _for no reason.

When he knocked on that door again, for the third time, it was answered.

Ludwig didn't express concern at his hassled and presumably frightened appearance.

Ludwig didn't shake his head and reach out to lend a helping hand.

Ludwig didn't utter a word at all.

Ludwig just stared at him for a moment, looking him up and down, and then, in that special occasion he had surely been saving, Ludwig opened the door.

That was all.

And while it was not under the circumstances he had wanted, it was still a strange feeling, to walk through that door into that house. Just not the strange feeling he had expected. He had long dreamed of how exhilarated and thrilling it would be to step inside that long-forbidden place, how entrancing he had always known it would be.

Instead of wonder, he just felt subdued, and somehow shamed.

Despondent.

They didn't say a word to each other as the night grew later, and Alfred was glad, because he was still _so _angry and so _hurt _that if he had opened his mouth it was very likely that he would have lashed out at Ludwig.

Ludwig left him later on, and he lied restlessly on his side, trying to fall asleep upon the couch.

He couldn't.

His veins were still throbbing with acid.

_ Oh_.

This hate was going to kill him one day.

You and him, they said.

He'd have hit the old man again to keep it that way.

Ludwig made him _happy_.


End file.
